A Scandal at Hogwarts
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: After six years at Hogwarts, John Watson only just noticed Sherlock Holmes, a fifth year Ravenclaw. And now that he's seen him, he can't seem to look away. Hogwarts AU, where Sherlock characters attend Hogwarts. Takes place long after Harry and company have graduated, but before the Next Generation is attending. Teenlock, Johnlock, some Mystrade.
1. Chapter 1: The Cowardly Lion

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**AU: Sherlock characters in the Harry Potter universe. This takes place eleven years after the plot of the book—John started going to Hogwarts five years after the fall of Voldemort and the bulk of the plot is in his sixth year—so if you're looking for a story where Sherlock characters are interacting with Harry Potter characters, this is not the story you want. Other than the staff being mostly the same, like McGonagall and Filch and Hagrid and stuff (and Neville being the Herbology professor), and references to Harry and his friends since they're famous, it is not about those characters. This also is not the second generation of the Potter/Weasley families, it's before their kids would be at Hogwarts, so they won't be in here either. Though I MIIIIIGHT give Harry Potter a cameo at one point. MAYBE. Don't count on it, in case I change my mind. **

**Oh, and, just a warning, this story might end up being very, VERY long. Like book length. I tend to get carried away, sometimes.**

**I have this rated M to be safe, because I have no idea if it'll have smut later. I haven't decided.**

* * *

John Watson could never shake the feeling that he was some sort of fraud. People thought he was one thing, but he knew in his heart that it wasn't true.

And it was all because the Sorting Hat went and mucked up John's sorting in his first year.

See, John always knew he was going to end up a Hufflepuff. All his life, he was called "loyal" and "compassionate", so when he was immersed into the wizarding world at the age of eight, he already knew what House he was going to be in. Not because he aspired to it or anything, but just because it fit him. Loyal, with no other useful skills. That was John Watson to a T. No offense to other Hufflepuffs, he supposed. But really, "bravery", "cleverness", and "ambition" were much more useful than "loyalty". What the hell did you even do with that?

John's older sister, Harry (which she was going by before she even knew Harry Potter existed, mind you, because she didn't realise wizards existed until a letter showed up by owl when she was eleven) ended up being a Gryffindor, and she always talked about how it was the best house and he'd need to "grow some balls" so he could be cool enough to be in it with her. But it didn't really matter what she thought of it, because he was going to end up a Hufflepuff and that was that.

Then John actually got to Hogwarts. He recognised some of the students already. Molly Hooper lived nearby John and he attended primary school with her. Then there was Judy Hudson, who he knew because her mother Mrs Hudson had once been his babysitter. It turned out, however, that she was always a witch, even though he'd never known it as a kid, and she taught Muggle Studies at Hogwarts. Maybe he'd take the class for her sake, but since he was raised like a Muggle until his sister got her letter, he knew enough about Muggle life that he didn't need to be taught. He heard from Harry though that Muggle Studies was a much more popular class than it used to be, in the post-Voldemort scene. She started going to Hogwarts two years after Voldemort, who used to be referred to as "You Know Who", was killed by Harry Potter. In fact, they were still rebuilding some things by the time she got there. Three years later when John showed up, however, the renovations were finished, but it was still a bit of a fad to be Pro-Muggle and Muggleborn, like it might fix all the bad Voldemort did.

John only knew about things like that because of hearsay, however, since his family was just like any Muggle family until Harry got her letter and they were whisked suddenly into the world of magic. His mum was a Muggle and his dad left before John was even born. Mum had no idea if dad was a wizard or not, so when people asked, John said he was a Muggleborn because he just wasn't sure. Then again, since both Harry and John ended up wizards, it was possible—maybe even probable—that Mr Watson had been a wizard, but John would never know for sure. Once the Watson family learned that they had a secret wizard gene, though, the house actually became quite magic-oriented. Even though mum was a Muggle, she was absolutely obsessed with magic things. He thought it was a little weird, actually, but he'd heard of wizards being obsessed with Muggle things before, so it wasn't that different.

He remembered when he first showed signs of magic clearly. He had been a little worried at the age of nine that Harry had been a fluke accident and that John wasn't a wizard at all, until the day that Harry stole his teddy bear (which was quite creatively named Teddy Bear) and she refused to give it back, and he was so angry that he made a vase explode with only his mind. It was the only time John wrecked something and his mum was excited about it. He privately thought she was a bit jealous of their magic and was living vicariously through them, since she didn't have it.

So the point of all that was that when John got to Hogwarts, he knew a bit about the magical world from his sister, like how Kingsley Shacklebolt was the Minister of Magic and Minerva McGonagall was now Headmistress (though people were kind of marveling at that, since she was so old. Then again, Dumbledore was probably like three hundred when he died, from all that John had heard about him, so McGonagall still being alive wasn't _that_ surprising). And he knew that the first years took enchanted boats to get to the castle, and someone said that Ron Weasley enchanted his boat to run backwards when he was a first year. John wasn't sure he believed it. He'd heard a lot of stories about the 'Heroes of Hogwarts', and more than half of them were made up. They'd also said that Neville Longbottom was madly searching for a toad the whole train ride on his way up his first year too, and that was highly unlikely. People just made things up.

John still wasn't sure why he remembered his first night at Hogwarts so clearly, like it was yesterday…

* * *

He was waiting to get sorted. The Sorting Hat had just ended his song, which John quite enjoyed. He apparently sang one every year.

John was at the end of the alphabet—literally the last on the list, in this case—so he had to wait a long while to get called. He heard both Molly and Judy end up being Hufflepuffs, and listened to many other strangers get sorted. He was just glad he'd have the two of them to talk to, so he wasn't totally alone on his first day here.

Then he knew it was his turn, because he was standing there alone, all the rest of his classmates already sorted. He didn't see why he was nervous, since he was going to end up a Hufflepuff anyway. There was no real suspense to it.

Headmistress McGonagall's voice rang out in the hall.

"Watson, John!"

He walked up to the Sorting Hat, thinking about the rumour he'd heard that when Harry Potter was sorted, he heard the hat talk in his mind. See? The stories were so ridiculous.

The hat was placed on his head. There was barely a pause.

And the hat screamed, "GRYFFINDOR!"

See, he just knew he—

John blinked.

Had he heard wrong?

Had it just said…

The Gryffindor table all jumped up, clapping for him. His mouth fell open with a quiet _pop_.

Gryffindor. The hat said Gryffindor.

John was honestly shocked. Gryffindor, the house of courage. How on earth had the hat decided that he belonged there? Was it possible for a hat to be smoking something?

John got up mechanically and sat at the table next to the other kids that had just been added to the Gryffindor House. He had wanted to sit next to his sister, but she was farther down the table than the rest of the first years. She did wave though, and wink at him, like she knew this would happen.

When he sat down, there was a guy next to him that was obviously not a first year, since John didn't see him sorted, but couldn't have been more than a third, from the looks of him.

"Good on ya, mate," he said. "Name's Greg," he added, thrusting out a hand. "I'm a second year."

"John," he replied, still in a daze. "I'm a first year."

He felt stupid for saying it the moment it left his mouth, but Greg only laughed good-naturedly. "Yeah, I actually figured as much."

"Erm… I have a question," said John.

"Alright," prompted Greg.

"Well… does the Sorting Hat ever sort incorrectly?"

"Whaddayou mean?" asked Greg.

But then the Headmistress called attention to herself in order to make a start-of-term speech.

He looked closely at her. She had a stern look, only intensified by her keen emerald eyes and the way her hair was tightly pulled back into a bun, tugging at the skin of her face. It was still black as pitch, even though her face was webbed with many wrinkles. He wondered privately whether she dyed it or if she used magic to keep it dark. Did wizards and witches—proper ones that weren't raised like Muggles—use hair dye?

"In the tradition that Albus Dumbledore left behind, I won't stop hungry students from eating with long speeches. So, with that… tuck in."

The kids that weren't first years seemed to have expected that, because some already had their gold cutlery in their hands eagerly. Then food suddenly appeared on the golden platters that already sat on the long table, much to John's surprise. Nobody'd ever told him about _that_.

"Whoa!" muttered John.

As the people around him began to eat, he overheard a first year from the Hufflepuff table murmur, "Did you know that this food's made by unpaid house-elves?"

Another girl scoffed. "Well, your information is about half a decade behind the times. Hermione Granger—you know, the one who destroyed the Horcruxes with Harry Potter—works for The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and she is very active in increasing the rights of house-elves."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Supposedly, she got offered a position in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement recently."

"How do you even know that?"

"Well, my mum knows a guy who knows a girl who has a sister that knows Ron Weasley, who's Hermione's husband."

"I know who Ron Weasley is! I'm not an idiot!"

"Yeah, well, I hear she said she'd think about it. Joining the Law Enforcement squad. And did you know that after the battle of Hogwarts, she came back to Hogwarts to finish her last year and finished everything in two months, passing all her NEWTS with flying colours? She's _so_ clever. I have seven posters of her in my room at home…"

John stopped listening then. Girls and their obsessions.

He scooped himself some shepherd's pie and began to eat. Well, he only started with that. He then moved onto a million other things, feeling stuffed only ten minutes later. He looked over to Greg, who was also looking like he'd eaten too much.

"Were you saying something about sorting?" asked Greg sleepily as he took a swig of pumpkin juice.

"Oh, right. I was asking if you could get sorted wrong."

"Well… I don't _think_ so. I mean, the Sorting Hat _knows_ things. I don't think it messes up. Why?"

"Because… well, I think I ended up in the wrong house."

A girl with caramel coloured skin and large, curly hair piped up on his other side. He'd seen her get sorted. "As long as you didn't end up a Slytherin, who cares?"

"Hey," Greg snapped, "Slytherin's aren't _all_ bad."

She scoffed. "Right. That's not what my sister told me."

"Well your _sister_ was wrong," Greg insisted. "Haven't you heard about Severus Snape? He was a triple agent! Harry Potter never would've succeeded without him. Voldemort would have won!"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop a little at the mention of his name, in John's opinion. He'd heard people used to be afraid to say it, and now he could see why. There was something about it… he didn't like it much.

Nobody else said anything, but he knew they noticed it too.

But still, the world went normal again in a second, and the girl said back, "Well, just because one's okay doesn't mean any others are."

Greg rolled his eyes and looked back to his food.

"What's your name?" asked John, just because he figured he should make as many acquaintances as he can on the first day, no matter what their first impression was like.

"Sally," she said.

"I'm John," he replied.

"I want to be an Auror someday."

John wasn't sure why she said this, but then Greg turned back. "You do?" he asked, as if he didn't want to be interested.

"Of course! It's the best job!"

"Well… I want to be too," said Greg timidly.

"Wow, cool! What about you, John? Do you want to be an Auror?"

John was nervous with all the sudden attention. "Erm…" he murmured. He'd never given any serious thought to what he wanted to be. He was only eleven, after all. Though he'd always wanted to be a doctor when he was little. "A Healer, maybe."

"Like at St Mungo's?" Sally specified.

John nodded, glad that Harry had brought up the place once so he knew it was a hospital without having to embarrassingly ask. "Yeah, like that."

Sally didn't look like she liked the idea much, which she confirmed by saying, "Well, it's not as cool as an Auror, but whatever you like, I suppose."

Then Greg came to his rescue. "Hey, Healers are important."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine." She went back to eating. John wasn't sure he liked Sally much.

John said hi to the other first years, but he was still wondering what had gone wrong with the sorting. He glanced over to Hufflepuff and met eyes with Molly, who waved. He tried to reciprocate her smile, but he was already feeling it coming on. The feeling that he was somehow a fake because he ended up in Gryffindor. The house for brave heroes. Which was definitely _not_ him.

* * *

John, to this day, couldn't figure out what the Sorting Hat had been thinking, picking him for Gryffindor. He'd never done a brave thing in his life. He was a Beater on the Quidditch team, which some people said was brave, since the Bludgers came at you so fast, but he'd never actually been in danger of being hit or anything, he was too fast for that.

The truth was, John was just not brave at all. And maybe it shouldn't have bothered him so much, but it did, privately. He never told his friends or anything, but he thought about it a lot. Because he wished he was brave. But he just wasn't. Or, at least, he'd never had a chance to be.

He went to McGonagall once about it.

And she'd told him, in a kinder voice than he expected, "The Sorting Hat sometimes knows more about us than we do. If he put you in Gryffindor, he sees something in you that even you don't."

And John just desperately hoped she was right.

* * *

**And so ends chapter one. Hopefully you like it so far. This story could go a million and three different directions, so if you have any requests, feel free to leave them. Please review. Thanks in advance. : ]**


	2. Chapter 2: The Know-It-All

John was ecstatic to be going back to Hogwarts. The summer had been long and dull, in his opinion. He missed his friends, and he missed the Great Hall, and he even kind of missed his classes.

And he'd gotten decent marks on his OWLs too—3 A's, 4 E's, and even 2 O's in Potions and Herbology—so now he was going to start his NEWT courses, which was both nerve-wracking and exciting at the same time. He wasn't allowed to take Transfiguration at NEWT level, since McGonagall only took you if you got an E and John had gotten an A, but he didn't mind so much. She was fine as Headmistress, and he liked her well enough, but Transfiguration was really hard and not much fun. So he was taking Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Herbology, History of Magic, Care of Magical Creatures, and Arithmancy. The last—he wasn't sure why, honestly—but he kind of liked it, even though Professor Vector gave loads of homework. All his friends thought it was strange, since mostly over-ambitious Ravenclaws took Arithmancy, but he didn't care much. He liked it better than Divination and Muggle Studies, at least, both of which he'd tried before and disliked immensely. And Study of Ancient Runes sounded like about as much fun as a root canal. So Arithmancy it was, then.

And he also was going to take Apparition classes this year, which he couldn't wait for.

He got off the train with Judy (as all of his other friends were prefects or, in Greg's case, Head Boy) and met Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, and Sally Donovan outside, Sally's boyfriend Anderson close beside her. It was funny, because he was a Slytherin. She'd been so against them back in first year, but now, in her sixth, she had a Slytherin boyfriend. John teased her for it frequently. He still sometimes didn't like her much, but still somehow they were friends. Their constant bickering was mostly friendly.

They all got in the same carriage, squeezing in more people than they could actually fit, considering that someone was already in the carriage, staring out at nothing.

"Hey, did you know these carriages don't actually run by themselves?" said Sally.

"Oh, come off it!" John replied.

"No, really! They're pulled by invisible horses or something."

"Invisible horses?" asked Greg, apparently not believing it either.

"Yeah, _Head_ _Boy_," she said mockingly. "It's true!"

"I think I've heard that too," piped in Molly.

"That's because it's true, you imbeciles."

Everyone in the carriage got quiet and looked over to the boy that was already sitting in the carriage, the one John had initially ignored. Now that he'd called attention to himself by being a git, however, he took a closer look. He was thin and pale, with prominent cheekbones and curly raven hair that whipped around in the wind. He couldn't see half of his face though, since he was still staring out of the carriage—in front of it, specifically.

"I didn't know _you_ were here," said Anderson distastefully to the boy.

"Ignore him," Sally muttered to everyone else, giving a sidelong glare to the boy as she said it, a scowl on her lips.

"Lay off, both of you," Greg warned in his new, authoritative Head Boy voice. "You're both prefects. Act like it."

They looked annoyed, but stayed silent.

"What do you mean, it's true?" asked John, curious.

The boy rolled his eyes. "The creatures that pull them are called Thestrals. They're a breed of winged horses with a skeletal body and reptilian features. Their wings mildly resemble that of a bat. The reason none of you can see them is because Thestrals can only be seen by those that have witnessed death."

"Wow, that's awful," said Molly quietly, now looking thoughtful.

John was gaping at the description, ready to say something too, when Sally scoffed. "No, Molly, that's complete rubbish. They're not _skeletal,_ and they're just invisible to everyone. Do you just make things up to pretend you're clever?" she accused the boy.

"Sally…" Greg warned once more.

"No, I read," the boy replied coldly, still not making eye contact with anyone.

John noticed that the boy was looking to the front of the carriage, where these 'Thestrals' would most likely be, if they were there. For some reason, he believed the boy. "Have you seen death, then?" asked John.

Finally, he turned. He was wearing a striped blue scarf, which told John he was a Ravenclaw. Made sense, the way he could spew off facts like a textbook. That was somewhat common for the other Ravenclaws he knew. He had an interesting face, unlike any John had ever really seen before. But mostly, he saw the eyes. His eyes were pale, seemingly flashing different colours every few moments. He was looking into John's eyes intensely, making John feel amazingly uncomfortable.

"Yes," he said, his voice cold and steady like it had been when he was telling them all what a Thestral was.

"How horrible!" said Judy.

His eyes flicked over to her for a short moment before his shoulders twitched up in a shrug and he looked back at the front of the carriage. John wanted to say something else, but couldn't think of anything, so he just looked back to his friends, who were already chatting again. It started raining then, which had everyone complaining, since the tops of the carriages had not been added because they weren't expecting any rain. All the others seemed to forget about the other boy in the carriage, who still stared ahead, the rain not affecting him at all. Well, all but he and Molly. Molly was still quiet, like she was still thinking about what he'd said about the things that pulled the carriages. And John kept looking back at the boy curiously.

They got to the front of the school and everyone got out, the mysterious boy immediately walking briskly with long legs into the Hall, shoving past everyone.

"Who _was_ that?" John asked, unable to keep silent any longer.

"Doesn't matter," scoffed Sally.

"I'd like to know anyway," said John, trying not to get annoyed.

"Sally, stop being a bitch," Greg accused, before saying to John, "He's a fifth year, I think. His name is Sherlock Holmes. I've had a few classes with him. He's always in higher level classes. I think he might graduate early, if that's possible. No matter what course they put him in, it's never hard enough. I heard he took his OWLs last year, even though he was only a fourth year, so he might be starting NEWTs this year."

John soaked that in. He couldn't just account that to the average Ravenclaw, since he'd never heard of someone taking classes for a higher year than they were in because the classes for their own year were too easy. Or taking OWLs early, for that matter. "He's… interesting," said John, not knowing what else to say.

"Yeah, that's one word for it," Anderson muttered.

"What've you two got against him, anyway?" asked Greg angrily. "He's not _that_ bad."

But he must've been _kind_ _of_ bad, from Greg's tone, John noticed.

"He's _weird_!" said Sally. "And a know-it-all."

"And he's a poor excuse for a Pureblood," added Anderson.

"What's pure blood got to do with anything?" asked John pointedly. He always hated it when Anderson brought up the whole 'Pureblood' thing, since people basically considered John a Muggleborn, for conversation's sake. It was such a _Slytherin_ thing to do.

"Oh, erm, nothing," Anderson said. Then Greg had to go, because he was Head Boy and had to go help the first years, and the others were prefects, so they were busy too, and Judy went to go sit at the Hufflepuff table. That left John quickly alone in the entrance hall, surrounded by the other kids that were crowding in to get to the Great Hall.

Then John saw that boy again. Sherlock Holmes.

It seemed his feet acted before his head, because he found himself drifting over to him. Now that he really thought on it, he'd seen the boy before once or twice. Maybe even in one of the classes he had with the Ravenclaws… but he'd never paid him any actual attention until now. He was leaning against the wall outside the Hall, looking at everyone walking by with a scathing look on his face.

Then his eyes met John's again once he was a metre away. The look on his face was so mean that it made John stutter to a stop. He was about to just turn around and walk the other way, to hell with being obvious, but then the boy called Sherlock spoke.

"Did you want something, John?"

This made John curious again. He gazed at Sherlock. "You know my name?"

"Of course I do. I know everyone's name."

John rolled his eyes. "You can't know everyone's name," said John.

"No, _you_ can't," retorted Sherlock.

John took another few steps closer and leaned against the wall. "Then how can you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Because I'm apparently the only clever person in his school."

John pursed his lips. "Is that so?" He was starting to see where Sally was coming from, if only a little bit. The whole know-it-all thing seemed to be ringing true at the moment.

"Sure it is."

"How clever are you, then?" asked John.

Sherlock glanced over to John, looking him up and down for a second or two. "You're a sixth year. Quidditch player, either a Keeper or a Beater, but I'm leaning towards the latter. You excel in Potions and Herbology. Though you spend time with Donovan and Anderson frequently, you don't much like them, and you only bother with them because Lestrade and Molly Hooper like them. You're a Muggleborn and you think that you were placed in Gryffindor incorrectly, that you belong in Hufflepuff. You are quite wrong about that, however."

John's mouth fell open.

"I—you—wow. How'd you know all that?"

"I didn't _know_, I observed."

"You figured all that just from looking at me?"

"How else would I?"

John was quiet again. "Wow," he said again. "That's… that was brilliant."

Sherlock looked over again, tilting his head as if John had said something odd.

"And… you said I was wrong, about being placed in Gryffindor when I shouldn't be. What'd you mean by that?"

He looked at John, somewhere between amused and intrigued, when his head whipped around, his eyes meeting an incoming student.

Another boy, tall and clearly older, was approaching. He had his hair slicked back and was shaking out his umbrella. His green tie told John 'Slytherin', which made him wary. He didn't hate every Slytherin or anything, but a lot of them were prats, that much was true.

"Sherlock," the other boy said. "Making friends, are you?"

"Mycroft," he replied coldly, "Don't you have anything better to do than talk to me? Like Head Boy duties to attend—oh _wait_. You didn't _get_ Head Boy. Greg Lestrade did. Which just leaves you as a measly Prefect, no better than Anderson."

The new boy's lip twitched. "I don't see _you_ with a Prefect's badge," said the older boy.

"That's because I don't want one."

"No, that's because, though you qualify academically, you've managed to accumulate not a single ally in this school since you started, not even a professor."

Sherlock's lip twitched in exactly the same way as the other boy's—Mycroft—had, and John suddenly was hit with a realisation. Brothers. They had to be, from the resemblance to the bickering.

Then Mycroft looked over to John. "Hello there. Chatting with him is so pleasing, isn't it?" he asked dryly.

And John wasn't exactly sure why he did it—not sure at all, in fact—but he glared at Mycroft and said coldly, "Yes, actually, it was quite nice until you arrived and ruined it."

Mycroft looked surprised, and then smirked. "Very loyal very quickly, Mr Watson. Seems you're in the wrong House."

And then he walked away.

John continued to scowl his way until he was out of sight. Did Mycroft somehow know about John's self-consciousness about his not belonging in Gryffindor, like Sherlock had, or had it been a coincidence, him bringing it up?

John looked back to Sherlock, whose eyes were back on the crowd, which had thinned a great deal. "You shouldn't have done that," Sherlock finally said. "Defended me. You don't want Mycroft on your bad side."

"He's your brother, then?" asked John.

"Unfortunately," he said distastefully. "That wasn't a bad deduction," he added. "How'd you know?"

John considered for a moment how to answer. "It's not really that you look _alike_, per se, but you kind of both… _feel_ the same. Does that make sense?"

"Feel? Feel how?" asked Sherlock in only slightly-patronising interest.

"You're both… intimidating. And know things you shouldn't, like my name and my… my feelings about my House placement," John finished quietly.

Sherlock was quiet for long enough that John looked at him again. The entrance hall was now empty, everyone in the Great Hall. Any moment, Filch would come out and yell at them to get inside so he could mop up the water left by the rain-drenched students.

"You're in NEWT level Potions, I presume?" asked Sherlock.

"Erm, yeah," said John. "Why?"

"Because sixth year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws have it together this time around. That and Transfiguration and Arithmancy, but I don't suppose you have either of those."

"I have Arithmancy, yeah."

Sherlock looked surprised for a moment before his face smoothed. "Maybe I'll see you."

John nodded a little and Sherlock strode away, leaving John standing in the entrance hall, feeling rather strange.

"Hey, you, get out of here!" growled Filch, and John entered the Hall to watch the sorting for his sixth time, but he found himself glancing over to Sherlock often.

"You okay?" asked Greg.

"Erm… yeah, fine," said John.

"Alright, if you say so."

John nodded absently and glanced over one more time… but this time, Sherlock was looking back. John was able to see the curious look in Sherlock's eyes for only a moment before he got embarrassed at being caught staring and looked at his lap.

And so began the unpredictable friendship of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**Let me know what you think thus far! **


	3. Chapter 3: The Cure to Boredom

**I'm going to try not to burden this story with too many author's notes like I usually do with my stories. Which is ironic to say in an author's note, I admit. But anyway, I just wanted to say that I love reviews and requests for what you want to see in the story, so leave both. That being said, on with the show!**

* * *

John woke the next morning and found he was still nervous about getting his classes, even when this was his sixth year at Hogwarts. Did that feeling ever really go away?

John went into the Great Hall and saw Molly at one table and Sally at another and immediately decided Molly was the better choice.

He'd heard that, before he attended (in his sister's first year and for ages before that) people were always to eat with the rest of their House at all meals, but apparently McGonagall decided there needed to be more socialising between the Houses and about eight years back decreed that people could eat wherever they pleased, except for the beginning of the year and end of the year feasts, just because those nights were too busy for people not to have somewhat arranged seating.

Before he sat, he got his schedule from McGonagall, his head of house, who smiled at him fondly. She was always nicer to the Quidditch players than to the other students, John noticed. He got just the classes he figured he would and knew immediately he'd be very busy indeed with it all. It'd be worth it though, in the end. They were all things he wanted to take. Well, other than History of Magic, but that was mostly because Professor Binns was so boring. He'd hoped in vain his A in that class would make him disqualified for the NEWT course, but apparently Binns took even A's into his class. Maybe because many people failed dismally out of lack of interest for his subject.

Eventually, Judy joined them, a book shoved under her nose like there often was. John was relieved when Sally and Anderson never bothered to come over. Maybe they were still cross about the bickering about Sherlock. Greg was nowhere to be seen during breakfast, which didn't surprise John. He was Head Boy now, so he had to help the little firsties find their classes.

"They get shorter every year, don't they?" mused John to Molly.

"Maybe," Molly said.

"Some of us are just always short," said Judy from behind her book, _Break with a Banshee_ by Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Are you talking about you or me?"

"That depends. If I'm talking about you, will you send a cursed Bludger after me?"

"Possibly."

"Then I'm talking about me."

John rolled his eyes and chuckled as he grabbed himself some eggs.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone sit down a bit down the table from them, and somehow he knew without looking that it was Sherlock. He, for reasons unknown, felt nervous and couldn't bring himself to look over.

"He's dreamy, isn't he?" said Molly, breaking John's reverie.

"W—what?" he stammered.

"Sherlock Holmes," she replied. "He's so _smart_."

"Oh. Erm… yeah, I s'ppose," said John absently. Soon after, he excused himself to go to History of Magic, even though he was dreading it.

Then someone came in stride with him.

"History of Magic?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes. With Hufflepuff. You?"

"Transfiguration with Slytherin. Then Defense after that with Gryffindor."

John looked over to Sherlock with his eyebrows pulled together. "But I'm a Gryffindor and I have Defense tomorrow."

"I'm taking seventh year NEWT Defense Against the Dark Arts this year. So it's with Gryffindor, but not your year."

"Right," John muttered. How on earth was Sherlock so far ahead?

"What do you have after History?" asked Sherlock.

"I've got Herbology next," said John. He hardly knew Sherlock, but still small-talk felt odd, like Sherlock was forcing it. It felt like Sherlock wanted to get to something specific in this conversation. He wasn't sure how he knew that though.

"Arithmancy after break?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes. You too?"

"There's only one time slot for that class, so yes," Sherlock said. "I'll see you then."

And before John could say anything else to him, he was gone, nowhere to be seen. John looked around once, twice, looking for a curly head in the crowd, but there wasn't one. Strange, considering Sherlock was tall, so he should really stand out. John shook his head. He was an odd bloke, to say the least.

* * *

Sherlock was thrilled that his new spell seemed to have worked. He created it himself over summer, but was unable to test it, since he was underage and not allowed to do magic outside of school. He often created spells when he was bored, but this one (which made him both invisible and insubstantial for just enough time to disappear from a conversation without a trace) he had to admit was a true work of art. It was nearly a shame nobody else knew it—but then again, it was probably too difficult of a piece of magic for others his age to attempt.

"That was impressive," said a dry voice to Sherlock's left.

"Mycroft, can't you just leave me be for a day or two?"

"John Watson? That's who you choose?"

Sherlock smirked. He'd been waiting for that. "Something wrong with him, brother dear?"

Mycroft's short silence was all Sherlock needed to know that Mycroft was fuming. He answered calmly though. "I only wondered if this sudden interest in John Watson is going to be anything like what happened last year with Irene Adler."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Right, _that's_ what worried him… "No, it won't be, because John doesn't try to use people to get information about rooms that don't exist."

"Don't exist? Do you mean the Room of Requirement?" asked Mycroft.

"Of course. Keep up with the conversation, will you?"

Mycroft huffed irritably before saying, "That _does_ exist, Sherlock. Harry Potter and his friends used it to hide from corrupt Ministry workers and as a base to fight Lord Voldemort."

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to him. "So you're saying that, somewhere in this castle, there's a room that appears and gives you exactly what you need?"

"Precicely. None of the graduated students will admit to where it is, and I've never found a person that knows, but someone's bound to find it eventually."

Sherlock was intrigued. Without further ado, he sped up and left Mycroft in the dust.

Sherlock glided through the hall to NEWT Transfiguration, which would be a very nice place to sit and think. Professor McGonagall proved to be the only professor in the school that could truly shut Sherlock Holmes up. She took none of his nonsense, and had threatened to expel him if she caught him being a show-off while she was in the room. He had to admit that he didn't really want to leave Hogwarts, so he had to be careful around her. He suspected that he and McGonagall both had a grudging respect for each other. When he first had her, she was amazed by how quickly he learned things, said something about being quicker than Hermione Granger, but then she learned his personality and wasn't quite so fond of him anymore. But she'd managed to get him to stop misbehaving in her class before the end of his second year, so now he always stayed silent and observed, learning the spells without bragging. Which he was capable of, of course, but it was much more fun to make fun of everyone else for being so slow or ask loudly who had cheated on that Hufflepuff girl that was crying in the back of the room.

So he sat down and McGonagall started class, and Sherlock mused on what had just happened… because he had to admit to himself that, other than an it being an experiment to see if his new spell was functional, his brother was partially right. That extra bit of magic had also been so he could remain extra mysterious to this new interest of his, John Watson.

As it was his fifth year at Hogwarts, he'd experienced pretty much everything it had to offer. All the classes, of course—though he was finally starting his NEWTs, which he could only hope might be some sort of challenge. But also all the meals, all the passageways (both public and secret)… there wasn't very much left. He had a few goals this year, however. To sneak into the Gryffindor Tower and Slytherin Dungeon was on his list. He'd found the Hufflepuff common room easily, and explored it in the dead of night before anyone could catch him—especially that dreaded Filch and his bloody cat, whose life goals were to bore Sherlock to death by keeping him in his common room the whole night. Nobody at this school seemed to understand that he didn't need to sleep as frequently as dull people, so he didn't get any special treatment. With his new spell, though, sneaking around would be easier, which was a plus. Now he even had a new thing to put on his list of things to do while he snuck around: finding this Room of Requirement. His other goals consisted of getting a sample of every Herbology plant in order to do experiments on them, going into the Forbidden Forest for a weekend in order to explore its depths, meeting every ghost at Hogwarts, and proving that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was actually a Dark Wizard.

But ever since last year, Sherlock realised something. One thing he hadn't experienced was the people of Hogwarts. Which he'd done on purpose, originally, because stupid people were dull… but not every person on the planet could be dull, right? So last year, it started with Irene. But once she figured out he knew nothing about the Room of Requirement, she disappeared from his life. He hadn't cared very much, but Mycroft kept saying that Sherlock seemed to have developed feelings for her. Sherlock could even say in the privacy of his own head that this was not true. She'd been interesting for a time, that was all.

But this John character… he proved promising. Mycroft, of course, would hate it though. Even more than he had Irene, because John was Muggleborn. Mycroft figured that people with their stature shouldn't converse with Muggleborns. Sherlock didn't care about things like that. He thought his parents being Death Eaters, and thus getting killed at the Battle of Hogwarts, was just a mere fact, not something to be upset over. He didn't share their disdain for those that weren't Pureblooded. Blood didn't matter to him in the slightest, other than maybe to do tests on it. He never understood his parents, and his parents had never understood him either. Where his parents were obsessed with lineage and thought Voldemort was the greatest genius ever to live, Sherlock had been too fascinated with Muggle science to care about things like that. His parents kept him away from it as best they could, but they died when he was four, so they couldn't stop him anymore then. Since he was already doing full-blown experiments by the time he was four, of course. Actually, Sherlock had kind of loathed his parents, so he hadn't minded so much when they died. Mycroft really hadn't either, actually, though he'd gotten some of their values instilled in him before they died when he was almost seven.

Which was part of the reason why John being his new object of study was a brilliant idea. First, John was actually interesting, from what Sherlock had seen so far. Quite different than other people at this school. And also, Mycroft would _hate_ it, which made it all the better. He hadn't liked Sherlock's Irene phase either, but at least _she'd_ been a respectable Slytherin.

So Sherlock was actually pretty excited to see John in his Arithmancy class in the afternoon. Or maybe before? He had to stave off boredom somehow, and until he figured out where the Room of Requirement was or how to sneak into the Forbidden Forest for an extended period of time without anyone noticing, John Watson would just have to do.


	4. Chapter 4: The Great Outdoors

John went through History of Magic and Herbology without thinking about it too intensely. Well, until a plant in Herbology tried to eat him and Professor Longbottom told John that if he wanted to keep his hand, then he should probably pay attention. Then John was on his way to the Great Hall—early, because Professor Longbottom had mercy on them and let them out early—for lunch when he was intercepted by Greg.

"You got out early too?"

"Yup," Greg said with a grin. "How's your first day been?"

"Pretty good. Yours?"

"Busy. First years are so clueless sometimes. I swear I've guided the lot of them to each class seven times by now."

"Well, in their defense, the staircases move."

"Well… yeah, okay, true. But still, I was late to both my classes because of it."

"Don't you get special privilege when you're Head Boy?"

"Well yes, but Professor Moriarty wasn't particularly pleased when I showed up late either way."

John thought about this. "You have Defense second hour?"

"Yeah, why?"

"So you have it with the Ravenclaws, then?"

"Uh huh…" Greg muttered suspiciously.

Which meant that he had it with Sherlock, since Sherlock had said he had seventh year Defense with Gryffindors. And John didn't know why that mattered to him, so he kept his mouth shut about it.

"So are you free for lunch, or do you have Head Boy duties to attend to?" asked John to distract him.

It worked. "No, I'm free, which is why I'm coming into the Great Hall with you." They both looked around for people they knew, but the Hall was mostly empty, as they were early, so they sat down at the nearest table, far off from anyone else, to wait for them. Greg then dug into his pocket, pulling out a pile of stuff and putting it on the table. "Chocolate Frog?" he asked, taking one of the many Chocolate Frog packages off the table and ripping it open and shoving the frog in his mouth before it tried to hop away.

"I've never had one," admitted John.

Greg gaped as a chocolate leg hung out of his mouth, wiggling away and hoping to be free. He swallowed his candy before saying, "_What_? Why not?"

"I always liked Pumpkin Pasties enough that I never tried anything else from sweet shops."

Greg rolled his eyes, slapping a Chocolate Frog package into John's hand. "Well you gotta try this. Plus, there's the collectable famous wizard cards. I only need a Granger and a Cliodna before I've got them all, so if you get one of those, I call it."

John opened his up, remembering to grab the frog before it hopped away. He ate it before it could escape and it was actually some pretty decent chocolate, he had to admit. Then he looked at his card.

"Whoa! I got Harry Potter!"

Greg looked unimpressed. "Everyone gets Harry Potter. He's in, like, every other package, along with Dumbledore. It's way more impressive if you get a Ron Weasley. Or apparently, a Hermione Granger, since I've never once gotten one!"

"What others are there?"

"Oh, loads. Some really old wizards, like Merlin and things, or some that are professors now. Like they have a McGonagall card, and a Hagrid card."

"Do they really? A Hagrid card would be cool."

"Yeah, that's new," said Greg. "He used to not have a card because he was half-giant, but the people who make the Chocolate Frog got a new boss recently, who isn't quite so prejudiced, and thought Hagrid deserved a card."

"That's cool."

He nodded and ate several more frogs, getting a Dumbledore, an Agrippa, a Circe, and a Merlin, but no Cliodna or Granger. He started to eat the actual lunch food as well, but John didn't feel very hungry for some reason. Their friends still hadn't shown up yet, but it was still a bit early, and if they had one of the stricter teachers, they might get out late anyway. McGonagall was known for that.

That was when John noticed that Sherlock was at the next table over. Just sitting. He wasn't eating. The hall was starting to fill up, but still nobody sat anywhere near him. Sherlock met eyes with him, but unlike last night, John didn't look away. They held the eye contact, looking at one another curiously.

"Oh, damn, look at that kid," said Greg suddenly, breaking John's staring contest with Sherlock Holmes. John grudgingly looked to where Greg was gesturing and saw a small boy with books piled up past the level of his eyes in his arms, waddling around like a crazy, lost penguin. "He's going to kill somebody. I better run."

And so John was alone again, but he just stared down at the lamb chop that was in his direct vision.

That is until someone sat down across from him, lithely enough that he knew it couldn't've been one of his friends, who were all either rowdy or clumsy. He looked up and, indeed, Sherlock had sat down across from him.

John's introductory small talk died in his throat. He couldn't figure out why this boy made him so _nervous_. He couldn't even make the excuse that he was an upperclassman or anything since Sherlock was actually younger than him.

"You're not eating," Sherlock said.

"Neither are you," John replied.

"I rarely do. Presumably, you eat as much as the average person, which means you should be eating right now. But you're not. Which is either due to you being upset, preoccupied with thinking, or nervous. I lean towards the latter two as my guesses."

John found himself a little annoyed at Sherlock's presumptions. Maybe more so because they were correct. So he said, "Or I ate some chocolate and it spoiled my appetite."

Sherlock looked amused. "It could be that, I suppose, but I hold to my hypothesis. So what are you thinking about, John Watson?"

John took a deep breath. "A few things you said yesterday," admitted John.

A smirk. "Yes, that was my assumption. What things?"

"About why you think I belong in Gryffindor. And… and how you saw death."

One of his eyebrows flicked up in that quick, elegant way that he did everything. "Interesting. Well, I think I could help you with both of those things," said Sherlock, promptly stuffing one of his hands in the plate of meat in front of them, taking several chops in it.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked John, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous Sherlock looked doing that. "There's a serving fork, you know, if you're feeling a bit peckish."

Sherlock ignored John, and then he used his wand to summon a bag to put them in.

"You can do spells without speaking?" marveled John.

"Of course. Since my third year."

"_Third_ year?"

"It's not particularly difficult."

"Either that or you're good at everything," mumbled John, but Sherlock ignored that too, standing up and putting the bag in his cloak. "What are you doing?" he added.

"You're not hungry, correct?"

"Not particularly," said John. "But even if I am, you've just saved me seven lamb chops, so I think I'll be fine."

Sherlock continued as if uninterrupted. "Then we're going somewhere."

"What about Arithmancy?"

"That's in nearly two hours. We have plenty of time. Are you coming?"

John sat there, staring up at Sherlock for another long moment, before he resolutely stood. Whatever Sherlock had in store was bound to be interesting. He saw Sally and Anderson walk into the Hall just then, so he ducked behind a crowd of third years so he could walk out without being seen. Sherlock looked like he wanted to tease him, but decided against it. They got out of the hall without getting noticed, and Sherlock led them out of the castle.

"Where are we going?" asked John.

"Must you ask so many questions all the time?"

John stopped walking. "I don't have to come with you at all. Tell me where we're going."

Sherlock turned, and John was getting really tired of that knowing glow in his eyes, like he knew everything John was thinking all the time, or maybe like he was entertained by some private joke.

He took another step forward so he was _far_ into John's personal bubble, and he had to crane his head back to look him in the eyes.

"Can you please trust me?" he asked quietly.

John had a lot of things go through his mind then. Like "why should I?" and "I hardly trust any of my other friends, let alone a weirdo like you" and "we only just met!"

But instead of saying any of that, John nodded mutely.

"Good," Sherlock said. "Then let's go."

And John followed as Sherlock walked out onto the grounds, out in the general direction of Hagrid's cabin.

But then they walked past the cabin, and John knew where they were headed.

"The _Forbidden_ Forest?" John asked franticly. "That's where we're going?"

"Yes. I want to show you something."

And he kept walking. _Knowing_ John would follow. John groaned, but did indeed continue walking.

Well, it wasn't so bad, so far. Really, he'd been in this part before for Care of Magical Creatures.

But when they kept walking for another twenty minutes, and the forest was getting darker because the trees were blocking out all the light, John was getting a little worried.

"We're nearly there," said Sherlock, as if he could sense John's apprehension even though he didn't look back.

Then he stopped in a small clearing. It made John feel slightly better that it was lighter here, as there weren't as many trees blocking the sun.

Then Sherlock got out his bag of chops and threw one of them on the ground.

"Are you luring something _here_?" hissed John automatically.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, not even a little ashamed. "It's not dangerous."

"But it eats meat."

"Yes, as does a dog. And you, for that matter. That's hardly proper proof that something's dangerous."

"Who says I'm not dangerous?" John asked with a smirk, which got an eye roll and an upward twitch of Sherlock's lips.

Then John watched as the meat on the ground floated up into the air. He checked that Sherlock wasn't doing it with some silent spell, but his wand was sticking out of his pocket and he wasn't touching it.

Then part of the chop vanished… almost like something was taking a bite. Then another piece. And then the whole thing was gone.

He looked up to Sherlock, who was looking down at him amusedly again.

"Thestrals?" he asked, putting together the clues.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "The Hogwarts Thestrals are allowed to roam free on the days where they don't pull the carriages." Sherlock threw out two more lamb chops.

"How did you figure that out?" asked John.

"I was bored one day, so I went around the forest for a while. Thestrals come to this specific clearing in flocks."

"Flocks? You mean..."

"That we're entirely surrounded? Yes. There're five in the area as of now."

John swallowed, glad Sherlock had brought so many lamb chops with him to appease them.

"And you can see them because you saw death once?"

Sherlock gave a harsh chuckle that surprised John. "Not just once," he replied.

"How?" John whispered, getting quieter accidentally.

Sherlock then surprised John again by taking his hand. John couldn't bring himself to protest initially, and the time it took him to realise that he probably _should_ protest was enough to realise Sherlock grabbed his hand for a reason. Sherlock was leading John forward, and John didn't want to walk around in an area filled with beasts he couldn't see without guidance, so he didn't complain about personal space. They took slow steps until they were right in front of one of the floating chops. The chop had frozen, and John imagined the thing was staring at him.

"Is it safe?" asked John.

"Does that matter? You want to pet it."

John looked over to Sherlock, ready to deny it… but then he nodded again. It was like he couldn't lie to Sherlock. His eyes pulled the truth out.

So Sherlock lifted John's hand up gradually with his own. John felt a shift in front of him, and he knew the animal had moved. There was an audible snort. The animal was obviously as nervous as John was. John took a deep breath, but didn't yank the hand away. And then his hand met hide, and Sherlock took his hand away from John's… and the head of the animal actually leaned into him, as if it enjoyed the contact. A smile spread across John's face and he rubbed the muzzle of the horse he couldn't see. It was a strange texture… he actually couldn't think of a word that could correctly describe it, other than different than anything he'd ever felt before.

Then, without warning, Sherlock took his hand again, sliding it against the hide of the invisible beast. Then there was a set of ridges—skeletal, John remembered. It was the animal's ribs. And then Sherlock lifted the hand up and put it back down again, and the texture had changed. "This is a wing," said Sherlock.

John took a moment gawking at what was happening. He'd been at Hogwarts for five years, was now starting his sixth, and this was the coolest thing he'd ever done.

John looked up at Sherlock as he scanned the seemingly empty area in front of them, obviously looking at the creature.

"Tell me what you saw," said John.

Sherlock looked down at John again, and the joking, I'm-better-than-you look that was usually in his eyes was gone. It made him even more intense than before, but this time John didn't feel like shying away. He just looked at him probingly right back.

The eye contact broke and Sherlock put his own hand on what must've been the side of the Thestral as he looked at it again. "My parents, when they were alive, would bring Muggleborns into the house and kill them for fun. They were Death Eaters."

A chill clung to John, raising goose bumps on his skin and tingling in his spine.

"Your _parents_… worked for Voldemort."

"Worshipped, more like. They were killed in the Battle of Hogwarts when I was four. Good riddance, really."

This boy that John felt such an odd connection with was raised in a home where they killed Muggleborns for fun. He didn't know how to feel about it.

"You… How do you…"

"Feel about Muggleborns?" asked Sherlock. "I don't really care what kind of blood someone has."

"But you must be Pureblood, if your parents were Death Eaters."

"From a long line, dating back all the way to Salazar Slytherin himself," said Sherlock mockingly. "Which really just means that my family's all incestuous idiots, but hey, my parents seemed to be proud of it."

"So you're related to all those famous Death Eaters, like the Malfoys and the Blacks and the Lestranges."

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "Though that hardly matters now. Most of them are dead."

"And you don't feel… badly towards Muggleborns at all?" asked John.

Sherlock met his eyes. "Why would I? You're less dull than my Pureblood brother, or that Pureblood Anderson."

"Why aren't you a Slytherin then?" asked John. "I heard that all Purebloods get into Slytherin."

"Not all," said Sherlock. "I think you have you think your blood makes you important somehow. Makes you better than other people."

"And you don't think so?"

"Of course not. I'm better than other people because I'm clever, not because I was born with only wizard-blood. Plus, I looked at the blood of a Muggleborn once under a microscope, and it was exactly the same as that of a Pureblood, so people using that distinction at all is rather silly."

"Microscope? You know about Muggle science?"

"It's a hobby of mine."

"Do you have other Muggle hobbies?" asked John.

"A few," replied Sherlock.

"Maybe you could show me sometime."

Sherlock smirked. "Maybe," he agreed. Then his eyes lit up. "What about tonight?"

"Tonight… before dinner?"

"No, after."

"But… we have to be in our common rooms."

"… And?"

"You want to sneak out?" asked John in shock.

"I do it frequently," said Sherlock.

John only thought for another moment. "Okay, fine. Where do we meet?"

"I'll be near the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. Just leave at midnight and I'll meet you."

John nodded. "Okay, I'll do it." He smiled.

"We should get back to the castle though," added Sherlock. "Arithmancy is soon."

"Right," John said, and Sherlock left the rest of the meat behind for the other Thestrals as they walked out of the area, Sherlock leading him through with their hands together so that he wouldn't run into any of the animals. John couldn't figure out why his hand felt fuzzy and tingly where Sherlock's touched his.

But John found that he was actually kind of excited to sneak out that night. He'd never done anything like it before.

"Wait," said John. "I thought you were going to tell me why I belong in Gryffindor."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I already did."

"What?"

"If you can't figure it out, you don't deserve to know."

John exasperatedly yanked his hand out of Sherlock's grip and walked faster.

"You're going to get yourself lost," said Sherlock. "You don't know how to get back."

"You wouldn't let me go the wrong way."

"I wouldn't?"

John rolled his eyes and stopped walking. "Fine. You lead. Just stop being such a dick."

"It's my nature," Sherlock said. "Take it or leave it."

Just like earlier, John considered saying, 'Fine, then I leave it' and stomping away…

But he just followed Sherlock mutely, unable to shake the feeling of curiosity the boy instilled in him.


	5. Chapter 5: The Muggle Hobby

Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but John just kept surprising him. Just… nobody had ever trusted Sherlock before. He'd never wanted it or asked for it, but even if he had, it's not like anybody would have given it to him either way. When he'd asked John to trust him when they were walking out of the castle, he'd half figured John would just walk away.

But John had trusted him. Trusted him enough to let him take him into the middle of a dangerous forest and pet an animal that he couldn't see.

Part of that was because John was obviously much braver than he thought he was, and possibly even a glutton for danger, which was exactly what Sherlock was proving when he took him into the forest in the first place. Most people wouldn't have done that, which proved Sherlock's point, even if John didn't know it yet.

But maybe there was more to it than that. Because Sherlock felt this strange… bond with John. He found him interesting. And yes, that was why he had chosen John as the person that would alleviate his near-constant boredom… But already, he felt like more than just an outlet for Sherlock to use for entertainment, more than just a person to analyse.

He wasn't sure what he thought, really. His head felt foreign to him suddenly, which was a little frightening, because Sherlock had explored every crevice of his mind, was able to bend all of it to his will… but it was almost as if a whole new section of his mind had opened up, one that had since been unavailable to him. And he had to explore it.

He thought about these things as he walked silently to the castle with John. He looked at him out of the corner of his eye, not sure why he couldn't stop looking at him.

They walked into Arithmancy and Sherlock had to go sit with the other Ravenclaws on the left side of the room. He took an empty lab table and when the last Ravenclaw came in to make an even sixteen on their side, perfect for the eight tables, the person elected to join another table and be the third in that group instead of going to sit with him. This was no different than usual. Nobody that knew him wanted to sit with him. He didn't care.

Then he looked over to John, and he saw that he was also sitting alone. This was not because someone could have sat with him but decided to join a different group, but because there just were only seven students on the Gryffindor side, which left John as the odd number. John was already looking at Sherlock when he glanced back, and Sherlock's mouth pulled into a tiny smile.

And John, instead of smiling back, grabbed his things, stood up from his chair, and went over to Sherlock's table. He plopped down resolutely next to him as everyone looked at him like he'd gone mad.

"John, you can't sit here," said Sherlock, but he was trying not to grin.

"We all have to have partners," said John. "Vector likes it better that way. Even if one of that group of three came over and shared with you, I'd be on my own. So I'm coming over to you."

"Fine then," Sherlock said, acting disinterested. But in truth, he knew what he was feeling. He knew why his brain felt like a new area opened up for use.

It was a feeling he'd never really had before. Companionship. Fondness for another person.

Class wasn't actually very eventful. Vector didn't mention John's change in seating, and then they had busy work the whole period.

Then Sherlock finished the rest of his day, ate dinner on his own, did all of his homework, and he waited for midnight to come. The time went by in a blur, nothing interesting him enough to claim his attention for very long.

He gave himself half an hour to get there, just in case he needed to take any detours. He ghosted through the halls, keeping an eye out for Filch, Mrs Norris, Peeves, particularly chatty paintings, or anything else that could get him caught. But he got there with no problem and, when he found the Fat Lady portrait, he hid behind a tapestry and waited for John to emerge.

It was ten minutes to midnight when John came out. Sherlock slithered out from behind the tapestry without making a sound, and stood right behind John.

"You shouldn't have come out so early," said Sherlock, making John jump and turn.

"Shit, Sherlock, you scared me!"

"What if I weren't here yet and you had to wait for me? Not very smart."

John grumbled in embarrassed irritation. "Well you _are_ here, so it doesn't matter."

Then came Sherlock's idea. One of the many things on his list of things to do was to see the Gryffindor common room. And now the door was right behind him.

"So, John," said Sherlock. "I was wondering… Did you bring your wand?"

"Of course," said John, taking it out of his pocket.

"Right. What about… Oh, okay, fine," Sherlock said. "I… could I see the common room?"

John raised an eyebrow. "You want to see my common room?"

"Yes. It's a… goal of mine."

"Erm… yeah, I guess so. Just don't tell anyone I showed you, I guess."

Sherlock was surprised at himself for just asking instead of manipulating him, but hey, it worked.

"But plug your ears," John said.

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah. People would be furious if they knew I gave the password to someone from another house."

"I won't plug my ears, John."

"Then you're not seeing it."

Sherlock groaned. "_Fiiiine_," he moaned, shoving his fingers dramatically in his ears.

* * *

After Sherlock got his mad enjoyment out of seeing the Gryffindor common room, he and John left, and John was immediately nervous. What the hell was he doing? He could get in serious trouble for this.

"Losing your nerve?" asked Sherlock quietly as they walked through the corridor.

"No," muttered John.

Sherlock looked about to reply to that, but then said instead, "We shouldn't have to worry about anyone walking by at this time. People patrol the lower floors more than the higher ones. But we do need to watch for Peeves."

"Peeves?"

"A poltergeist. He's loud and he gets people into trouble for fun."

"Oh, okay," said John. Then he asked, "So where're we going, anyway?"

"The fifth floor."

"For what?"

"You'll see."

"Do you get sick enjoyment out of being as vague as possible?"

"This needs to be as nerve-wracking for you as possible to prove my point, and not knowing your destination makes you nervous."

John was officially lost. "Wait, what? What point?"

"If you haven't figured it out before you get back to your common room tonight, I'll tell you," said Sherlock.

John grumbled for a moment. "Fine," he said.

"Good. We're here," he added.

John looked around. That'd been far easier than he expected. But then he recognised where they were. "Wait. This is the Muggle Music room," he said, gesturing to the door in front of them.

"Indeed," said Sherlock, flicking his wand at the door. John heard a click that meant he was unlocking the door, and then they went inside. After Sherlock shut it, he did some other silent spell, but he didn't hear a lock clicking, so John wasn't sure what spell he had performed.

But John was too busy looking around to ask. The Muggle Music classroom was, as it might sound, full of Muggle instruments. The two most prominent things in the room were a grand piano and a drum set, but there were cases of other instruments on the walls.

"So what're we doing here, Sherlock?" asked John quietly.

"You asked about my Muggle hobbies," said Sherlock.

"You like music?"

Sherlock nodded.

"What do you play?"

Sherlock smirked. "Pretty much everything in this room."

John wasn't even surprised. "Do you have a preference?" he asked.

Wordlessly, Sherlock went over and picked a case off of the wall. He had a feeling he'd done it before, because he knew exactly which one he wanted. He set it on a table and opened it up. A violin. He took it out and took a seat.

"Wait, Sherlock, you can't play. It'll be too loud."

"I did an Imperturbable charm on the door. No sound can get through."

"Oh," John said with a smile. "Then by all means, carry on."

Sherlock nodded and set his violin under his chin.

And then he started to play, and John honestly felt like his breath got stolen away. The chords were long and quivering in some places, and quick and strong in others, but the entirety of the song gave a haunting feeling, giving him goose bumps. John wordlessly, and almost thoughtlessly, moved closer to Sherlock, and as he did he felt the humming vibrations of the instrument deep in his chest, both a real physical thing and an emotional reaction to what was being played. John had never before been one to get emotional from a piece of music, but this was different than anything he'd ever heard before.

Just like Sherlock. It was different the way _he_ was different. He knew that if anyone else tried to play this piece, it would sound all wrong. This piece _was_ Sherlock. Calm and calculating on the surface, but deeply emotional beneath in a way that seemed unintentional.

John couldn't tell you how long he sat and listened, a minute or an hour or several hours, but he never got bored. Not of listening, and not of watching either, because Sherlock had his eyes shut and his body moved with the music and John was sure that, for now, Sherlock had entered his own world where nobody else existed. Where nothing at all existed other than him, the chair he sat in, and the instrument in his hand.

Then it quivered to an end, and finally Sherlock's eyes opened and locked with John's.

John was speechless. He had absolutely no idea what to say. And Sherlock didn't have anything to say either, it seemed. He stood up and put the instrument away, and still John just stared, the remnants of the song still echoing in his ears and in his mind and in his heart.

Sherlock was walking towards the door and getting out his wand—assumingly to get rid of the Imperturbable charm on the door—when John could finally speak.

"You wrote that, didn't you?"

Sherlock's lips quirked up. "How'd you know?"

"Because nobody else in the world could write that."

There was a moment of silence. "You think that?"

"Of course I do," scoffed John. "It doesn't take a genius to see that you're one. You're… you're brilliant."

"I…" Sherlock muttered, and John had a feeling that seeing Sherlock lost for words this way was very uncommon. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"You aren't told that very often, are you?" asked John.

"Only ever by myself," replied Sherlock.

He'd thought originally that Sherlock was so big-headed—and maybe to a point he was—but… Sherlock's story was actually a little sad. Nobody had ever appreciated him in his life, ever cared that he was around. His parents had literally been evil and Mycroft seemed like a dick and… John kind of got it. Why he'd be so callous all the time. Why he'd value his intelligence over anything else. Because it's all he had that was worth caring about.

And they were silent as they walked back to the common room—not out of fear of getting caught, but probably both in thought. John was, at least. He felt different than he had before he left at a quarter to midnight. Like he was different, like his surroundings were different… like Sherlock didn't look the same anymore. Sherlock was suddenly a work of art the same way his song had been, dark and mysterious and cold, but somehow something so much more underneath, something so beautiful it could make a grown man cry if they took the effort to really _look_. And maybe it was weird to think that, but he didn't even care at that point whether it was or not.

He got back to the Fat Lady and said the password aloud, not worrying that Sherlock might abuse it, and wordlessly entered, figuring that if Sherlock wanted to follow, he would. And he did. He sat in one of the fat armchairs by the now almost-dead fire and Sherlock sat in the one next to it. John stared into the orange flickering embers, which were the only light source in the room other than two fairly dim gas lamps.

"So do you understand now?" asked Sherlock.

Maybe normally, John would have had to ask what Sherlock meant, but right now his mind felt… sharper than usual. Like the music had cleared it and focused it at the same time. And also like he and Sherlock, for this short amount of time, were on nearly the same wavelength.

"You're trying to _show_ me why I belong in Gryffindor," said John.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "And in order to prove it, I have created a series of tests."

"Tests?" asked John distastefully.

"Not like an ordinary test. Let's call them… adventures."

"Adventures."

"Yes. When you are able to complete them all, you will have proven to yourself that you belong in this house."

"And why would you do that for me?"

"Because I told you that you belong here, and you don't believe me, which is questioning my intelligence, and I can't have that."

"It's not just that, though," said John knowingly.

Sherlock raised his head, jutting out his chin. "You don't know that."

John rolled his eyes. "Fine. When are these adventures happening?"

"Whenever I deem fit."

"And how much trouble are we going to get into?"

"None, if we do them right."

That was a dangerous answer, but John didn't say anything in response, instead plowing on to his next question. "And how many are there?"

"That information shall stay with me."

John rolled his eyes. "Because the suspense makes it scarier for me?"

"You're catching on," Sherlock replied with an approving smirk. He then stood. "But a prefect is bound to come down any minute and ask why you're still up. I better run before they see me."

"Okay," said John. "See you tomorrow?"

Sherlock checked his watch. "More like today, at this point."

John smiled. "Okay then, today." He started walking to the exit. "Do I get to know the first adventure?" John asked as Sherlock got to the door.

Sherlock looked back. "Do I have to answer that?"

John sighed, but really he was more amused than exasperated at the moment. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

Not even a minute after Sherlock left, down came a prefect—Sally, actually. How did Sherlock know things like that?

"John?" she asked in surprise. "I didn't know you stayed up late." He noticed now, like he had a few times before, that she was much more good-natured late at night. He'd had some nice conversations with her after dinner by the fire. He thought that, in her obvious decent mood, she was probably the best person that could've come down to check on him.

"Oh, just working on homework," he said.

Luckily, his Arithmancy essay was still sitting out on the table from before he left, so it wasn't an obvious lie.

"Already? That's rough."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Were you talking to yourself?" she added, but she said it with a smile, not suspiciously.

"I mutter to myself sometimes when I do homework, yeah," said John.

"Oh, okay. I was just wondering. I thought I heard voices. Didn't want there to be some firsties getting into middle of the night trouble. You know how they are, thinking they can get away with sneaking out or something."

John miraculously kept from laughing. "Yeah, that's kids for you."

She smiled. "Alright, well g'night John. Get some sleep."

"I will."

But John sat up for a long time, watching the embers die completely, before he could calm his buzzing mind enough to sleep. And even as he went up to his room, his mind drowsy and slow from exhaustion, he couldn't help but think that things were now going to be very different for him.


	6. Chapter 6: The Nutty Professor

After the night in the music room, John and Sherlock very quickly became almost completely inseparable. They sat together at every meal and in any class that they had together that let them sit with other Houses. During breaks they were together in the grounds, or in some nook that Sherlock went to often because nobody else ever went over there and he preferred to interact with others as little as possible. Because of this, John's interaction with Sally and Anderson had gone down to nearly nonexistent, because they didn't approach John when Sherlock was around, and Sherlock was around a _lot_. When they had to do homework, they did it together in the library, and when John had Quidditch practise, which started in second week, Sherlock would often sit in the bleachers and read. In fact, they were quickly being referred to as "those two" by professors and students alike. Filch glared at them every time they walked by, claiming they had a "shifty look about him" that made him feel like he was going to have to "clean up one of their messes any second".

Molly, Judy, and Lestrade, however, did not totally avoid John now like Sally and Anderson did. They sat with he and Sherlock at some meals. Actually, they seemed to kind of like Sherlock, John thought. They didn't seem to begrudge his presence, at least. In fact, he had a feeling Molly had a bit of a crush on him.

John really didn't mind that Sherlock was quickly becoming his best friend, which alienated a great number of people in the school who wouldn't talk to him when Sherlock was around. It seemed worth it to him.

John walked out of his Charms class and Sherlock was there, like he always was. John still didn't get how he did that, even after more than a month of being friends with him. John would be just fine looking for Sherlock himself, but Sherlock always was there before John even got out of his classroom.

"He's evil," said Sherlock the moment John got out the door.

John had heard this theory almost every day for six weeks now. Sherlock did this every time he left Defense Against the Dark Arts. He was convinced that their professor, who'd been teaching at Hogwarts for nearly ten years now, was secretly a former-Death Eater that wanted to finish Lord Voldemort's work. He had a ton of 'reasons' why this had to be true, like his voice being too high, his shoes being too well polished, and his surname being Irish even though he was 'obviously' of French descent. But John knew the real reason he didn't like Professor Moriarty was because he was openly a fan of Muggle Science, and Sherlock didn't like when people shared odd traits with him.

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, I've told you a million times, he's not _evil_. Don't you think McGonagall would notice if one of our teachers was a dark wizard?"

"She didn't know about Severus Snape!"

"Snape ended up being one of the good guys in the end, Sherlock."

"Well… well I _know_ I'm right. And when he tries to kill us all, I will not accept your apology unless it's in writing."

"If you're right, then I'll write you a fucking book of apologies."

"I will hold you to that."

"I know you will."

There was a beat of silence, which showed John that Sherlock was about to jump to the next subject. He was glad, because he didn't feel like hearing Sherlock's new theories of the day about why Professor Moriarty was the new You-Know-Who.

"The adventures are to begin soon," said Sherlock, changing the subject just like John had suspected he would. "Actually, we could start now, if you want."

"_Finally_. I was starting to think you forgot about them."

"Me? Forgot?"

"Right, that was a dumb thing to say," John agreed. "So what's the first one?"

"The first is easy. Not really even technically against the rules if we do it during the day."

"Okay, but can I grab a bite of lunch first?" asked John.

Sherlock groaned. "But that takes so much _time_."

"Well I, unlike you, have to eat several times a day."

"It's so time-consuming," Sherlock grumbled. "And all that digestion must make your mind even less productive than usual."

"Of course it does. Now, am I going to be able to convince you to eat today?"

"It's a Tuesday. I can't eat on a _Tuesday_."

"You're completely psychotic," John decided aloud for the thousandth time.

"I'm fairly certain I know more about psychiatry than you, thus making me more qualified to make a judgment like that than you are, don't you think?"

"About yourself? No. You don't see yourself clearly whatsoever, Sherlock."

"Coming from the person I am trying to convince got sorted into the correct house because he thinks he's a coward when he clearly isn't. Right."

"Which brings us back to the matter of our first 'adventure'. What are we doing?"

"We're going on a bit of a treasure hunt," said Sherlock.

"And what's the treasure?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but John saw why a moment later when McGonagall came up. "Holmes," she said with a stern nod in greeting. Then she looked to John. "I hope you're keeping up with Quidditch practise, Watson. The game against Slytherin is only two weeks away."

"I'm keeping up," he assured her.

"Good. The team's looking good this year. I won't have Slytherin taking that cup, not again. They haven't had it in nearly two decades, and I'm quite happy with that." John had heard that from her before. McGonagall was quite competitive with Quidditch, but mostly against Slytherin. She didn't mind that Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had both gotten the cup in the past ten years, only that Slytherin _hadn't_. "This could be our fourth year running, Watson. Don't forget that." She walked briskly away.

"God, I'm glad I don't have a class with her again," said John. "She's so… intense."

Sherlock just shrugged, and John smirked. He'd heard about how McGonagall was about the only person ever to live that could force Sherlock to behave. He hardly spoke when she was around.

John quickly walked into the Great Hall and leaned over to grab a few pieces of bread and some meat to make a sandwich on the go.

Then Greg walked over to them. "Leaving so soon?" he asked. "You two off to cause trouble?"

"Naturally," John said around a bite of food.

"Just don't tell me about it, or I might have to report you."

"You wouldn't dare," said Sherlock.

"I _am_ Head Boy, you know," said Greg. "So I have authority over you. In case you forgot."

John rolled his eyes at both of them. "Don't worry. We won't tell you a thing."

John turned to follow the ever-impatient Sherlock, but then Greg said, "Wait."

John turned back to him. "Yeah?"

"Erm… well… I only wondered…"

John knew where this was going immediately. Greg had spontaneously decided this year to try out for Quidditch, since it was his last year and all… and he made it. Well, sort of. He was the reserve Keeper, meaning that if the usual Keeper got injured or sick, Greg took his place. And just over the weekend, Yancey had gotten badly hexed—people suspected that one of the Slytherin Chasers did it—and he had no use of either of his arms and Madam Pomfrey had no clue how to fix it. So, as of now, Greg was the new Keeper, and he'd been nervous about it ever since.

"You want me to do some extra training with you?" guessed John.

Greg looked relieved that he didn't have to actually say it. "Could you?" he asked hopefully.

"Sure. Just tell me when you're free. I'd love to throw some Quaffles at your face."

Greg looked a little nervous, but nodded. "See you later, then."

"See you."

Then Sherlock and John walked back out of the Great Hall, John waving to Molly when he saw her walking by. Sherlock nodded in her direction uninterestedly in response to her enthusiastic smile.

"Sherlock, you don't have to be a prat to her. She fancies you, you know."

Sherlock looked down at John. "Fancies me?"

"Don't tell me you didn't realise."

"Well… I dunno. I figured she realised that she's not my type."

"What about her isn't your type?"

"She's _dull_, John."

"You think everyone's dull."

"Not you," Sherlock amended.

"So I'm the only one in this castle that's your type, then?" John meant it as a joke, but it sounded too pointed and curious once he actually said it. Not that he wanted to be Sherlock's type or anything. Nope…

"Yes," replied Sherlock, leaving John contemplatively silent. "I only mean…" Sherlock muttered in the quiet, seeming to realise what he said was a bit strange. "Well, you don't bore me like other people," Sherlock finished, nearly sounding timid.

"It's okay if you're in love with me," John said, joking to break the sudden tension. "Most people are."

"Oh, of course. Tell me John, how many dates have you gone on since this year started?"

"More than you have in your whole life," John retorted.

"True," Sherlock allowed, "but I've never wanted to date. You do."

"Maybe the person I'm interested in doesn't fancy me back and that's why I haven't gone on any dates. Ever consider that?"

Sherlock looked just a smidgeon too interested in John's comment. "You fancy someone?" he asked in a would-be casual voice.

"That was hypothetical," John said quickly.

He expected to get a third-degree grilling from Sherlock then, but instead, Sherlock said, "So what we're looking for is a room."

"A room?" John asked, grabbing onto the subject change for dear life, glad that Sherlock's attention span was sometimes so short.

"It's a door that you can't see usually. It's Unplottable, thus not on any map of the school."

John smiled. "You're talking about the Room of Requirement."

"You've heard of it?"

"Of course. Who hasn't? But you want to find it?"

"I think we will today," said Sherlock.

"Do you?"

"Yes. I've done some calculations, and there are very few places in the school where it could be. It has to be somewhere with low foot traffic, or someone might accidentally open the door without meaning to. There has to be an empty space in the wall, and there aren't too many empty spaces in this castle, with all the paintings and tapestries and suits of armour... So I've narrowed it down to five different locations, all on the fifth, sixth, or seventh floors."

"And you know how to open it?"

He sighed. "That's the problem. I don't know that bit. But I know someone who does."

"You do?"

Sherlock nodded. "Professor Longbottom."

"You want to ask him how to get in? He won't tell us!"

"How do you know that? Nobody's ever bothered to ask. They know he won't say where the entrance is, but they never ask _how_ to open it. Maybe he'll tell us because he'll figure we'll never be able to find it."

"That's your master plan? Just ask him and hope for the best?"

"I have a plan B, of course."

"Which is…"

"I'll tell you if plan A fails. But I don't think it will."

John noticed then that they were leaving the castle. Already going to see Professor Longbottom, then.

"Fine. I guess it couldn't _hurt_."

He mostly said it because he knew he didn't actually have a choice and wanted to pretend he wasn't let Sherlock have complete control over his life at all times. They were already almost to the greenhouses anyway, and the professor could be seen tending to a bulbous plant that resembled a cactus with large pimples. He often tended to it. John thought it was his pet or something. Professor Longbottom had always been… strange. But still, the students respected him for his reputation of having killed the Dark Lord's snake and being an Auror for several years before starting to teach. Actually, Professor Sprout could be seen inside Greenhouse Three. Both of them taught Herbology, and Sprout was still head of Hufflepuff House. John just hoped she didn't walk out during the conversation and decide the two of them were up to no good. Professor Longbottom had always seen the best in everyone, so he likely wouldn't know what they were up to.

"Professor Longbottom," said Sherlock enthusiastically, displaying his 'nice voice' that he used when manipulating people that didn't know him well enough to know it was completely and utterly fake.

"Mr Holmes," said Professor Longbottom with his awkward, crooked smile. "It never stops being strange that you all call me by my last name. I'm just Neville, you know? Nothing special."

John smiled a little. He'd always been quite modest, for being a Hero of Hogwarts. He might have been one of John's favourite professors, and maybe the sole reason he liked Herbology so much.

"Would you prefer I called you Neville?" asked Sherlock.

"Outside of class, yes," admitted Neville.

"Then you can call me Sherlock."

Neville smiled. "Will do. Do you need some help with homework or something?" added the professor.

"No, this is actually about my friend John," said Sherlock.

John tried not to look confused.

"Is something wrong, John?" asked Neville.

"You see," said Sherlock with a dramatic, long-suffering tone, "John's had this… issue with himself for many years."

"Has he?" asked Neville.

"Yes. He's quite self-conscious about it. But I thought a chat with you might help him out."

"Well… I'll help if I can, of course," said Neville humbly.

"You see, John thinks he isn't meant to be a Gryffindor."

John had to bite back his impulse to yell at Sherlock, and clench his fist in order not to lunge over and hit him. He didn't just _tell_ people about that, so Sherlock certainly couldn't!

"Really?" asked Neville. "Well that's just silly, John."

John was surprised by this, his anger moving to the back of his mind momentarily. "It is?"

"You know, I was a Gryffindor when I was here."

"You were?" asked John with interest. Professor Longbottom always seemed like a Hufflepuff type to him.

He nodded. "And I never thought I belonged, and nobody else thought so either. And Hermione Granger, you know about her, right? She's a friend of mine, and everyone thought she should've been a Ravenclaw. But then I learned—and she learned—in the end that the Sorting Hat knows us better than we do, you know? It sees who you really are, and what you'll do. I thought I was a coward most of my life… but sometimes I feel that me being put in Gryffindor was what made me brave. I promise, the Hat didn't get it wrong."

John was quiet, surprised that this little speech made him feel better than any other person had.

"You even found the Room of Requirement for the DA, didn't you?" asked Sherlock conversationally.

"Actually, that's a common misconception," said Neville with a grin. "It was Dobby the house-elf that told Harry Potter about it."

"It sounds so interesting," said Sherlock. "How do you get into a room with no door, anyway?"

"Well, it has a door, you just have to make it appear. You basically walk by it three times and think about what you want." Then his eyes widened. "I shouldn't have told you that. You aren't to go looking for it, you understand?" he asked, his stern professor voice back (though it still sounded a bit timid).

"No, of course not," said Sherlock. "That would take ages, seeing as the door could be anywhere at all, and we have NEWTs to consider. I was only curious."

"Well… okay then," relented Neville with a grin that made John feel a little guilty for tricking him, even if it was all Sherlock doing it. "Well, better get back to my Mimbulus," he said. "See you in class tomorrow," he added to John, who nodded.

They walked away and John waited until they were an appropriate distance before starting to laugh, his guilt swallowed by admiration for Sherlock's ability to do basically anything. "Sherlock, that was brilliant!" he said.

"I told you he'd tell us."

"Yes, you did. But that still doesn't mean you can just tell people about my… House-complex," John added firmly. Sherlock looked like he was going to defend himself, but then John slapped his hand to his forehead. "Oh no, Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock asked, startled.

"I have an essay due tomorrow for History of Magic! I can't do this now!"

"It won't take that long," said Sherlock in irritation. "There's only five locations to check, and I'll check three of them mys—"

"I can't get essays done in ten minutes like you, and I have Quidditch today right after class, then a private lesson with Greg... I really got to go!" John was already turning to go back to the castle.

"Wait, John!" Sherlock said hurriedly. "Take this!"

He then thrust a pin with the Holyhead Harpies on it into John's hand.

"I don't even like the Harpies."

"John," Sherlock said, his voice dangerous in a way it usually wasn't, "Just put it on and _don't_ _take_ _it_ _off_."

John groaned, but put it on his robes. "Okay, you happy? Bye!" And before Sherlock could protest anymore, John ran away.


	7. Chapter 7: The Crowded Bleachers

**Brief notes: 1) According to the request of ****_With a Sprinkle of Winter_****, I've added more Molly and Lestrade to this chapter.**

**2) In chapter one, I said this fic was M because there may be smut later. I decided there will definitely be smut, but it won't be for a while. I just thought I'd warn you.**

**Anywho, interruption over.**

* * *

Sherlock felt a sinking feeling in his gut as he watched John run back towards the castle, leaving him standing out on the ground with his hands deep in his pockets. It's not like John was going to be gone forever or anything. Or gone for very long at all, for that matter, seeing as he had double Potions with John after the break.

But for now, Sherlock was on his own, so he walked around the Black Lake contemplatively, considering his life of late.

Everything was different now. Before, he had been one who was always on his own—and very much enjoyed his solitude… but now, every moment without John felt like a moment wasted.

The next several hours went by very quickly for Sherlock. Nothing was enthralling enough to keep him paying attention, mostly because none of it actually involved John. He finished off break walking around the lake. He sat on the Ravenclaw side of Potions and watched the Gryffindor side. Class started and only then did John run into the classroom, plopping down into his seat and hastily apologising to Professor Slughorn. Slughorn was happy to have him be late, however, since he loved John. In fact, John mentioned that he had only just gotten out of meeting him on the Hogwarts Express on the way up, but that he was going to have to go to his Christmas party and that he was going to force Sherlock to come with him.

The next thing Sherlock really remembered was being sprawled on the bleachers by the Quidditch pitch, his eyes closed and his hands steepled beneath his chin.

"Sherlock," said an enthusiastic female voice near his head.

"Molly," Sherlock replied, not bothering to open his eyes.

An awkward pause. Then again, everything that involved Molly Hooper was awkward. "So… does Quidditch bore you or something?"

"Mildly," Sherlock said shortly.

"Oh… well I only wondered because you aren't watching."

Sherlock didn't grace that with a response.

"What're you thinking about?"

Sherlock somehow kept himself from sighing. "The significance of the number three hundred and ninety four."

Another pause. "So… what's the importance?"

"I don't know yet, that's why I'm thinking about it."

"Oh." This silence lasted longer. "Why are you here if you aren't watching?" she asked. "Do you think better when John's nearby?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "What?" Sherlock asked.

Molly sighed. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I've seen how you look at him."

Sherlock sat up, and when he did he noticed something out of the corner of his eye, but for the time being, he ignored it in favour of this conversation, which had suddenly become interesting. "I don't look at him like anything."

"Right, and I don't look at you like anything either," she said dryly.

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that, so he just continued staring.

"Sorry, I probably shouldn't have said that," Molly said. "It's just… If you like him, why don't you tell him so?"

"How do you know I haven't?"

"Because you weren't actually thinking about the number three hundred and ninety four."

Sherlock looked at Molly much more closely then, considering for the first time that she wasn't quite as stupid as he had supposed.

"You should talk to him," Molly said.

"If you fancy me, then why are you telling me this?" enquired Sherlock.

She chuckled a little. "Always so blunt," she muttered before she added to him, "Like I said, I'm not stupid. I know when I haven't got a chance with a guy. I'm used to it."

She stood up. "Where're you going?" Sherlock asked.

"I dunno. For a walk."

He was quiet. "I didn't mean to upset you," he said, and he actually meant it. She was dull and incredibly uncomfortable to be around, but that didn't make her a horrid person or anything.

She smiled. "I think from you, that's a pretty decent compliment." And before he could think of anything more to say to her, she was walking away. Sherlock spent a moment watching her retreat in curiosity, wondering if she wasn't quite as boring as he always figured, but then called his attention to the thing he had noticed a minute before.

His brother was there in the bleachers, trying to be as inconspicuous as he could as he watched the Quidditch team practise.

Sherlock got up and went over to where his brother stood.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said. "What're you doing here?"

Mycroft didn't look away from the pitch. "I was just taking a stroll," he replied.

"I noticed you standing here several minutes ago. Did you fancy a break from your exhausting strolling?"

Mycroft didn't reply for a long enough moment that Sherlock knew he was correct in thinking Mycroft was here for a reason. He looked over to his brother's face, more closely than before, as his eyes followed the flying figures, a faint smile on his face, his eyes showing with some emotion always forbidden to Holmeses…

And Sherlock knew that look. He'd seen it in the mirror enough times recently.

"You like one of them," said Sherlock incredulously.

Mycroft seemed to decide the conversation now merited his eye contact. He looked over to Sherlock. "What?" be spat. "Sherlock, that's—"

"But I've never seen you at a training session before, which either means you only gained said feelings recently, or the person doesn't usually play," he rattled off. "I suspect it's the latter, which means…"

"Sherlock, you're reaching."

"It means you like Greg Lestrade."

Mycroft looked over to Sherlock with a prize-winning scowl, but his eyes were bright and his cheeks were pink.

"Since when?" asked Sherlock.

"You're being ridiculous."

"You're being ridiculous thinking you're going to convince me I'm wrong."

"Well, you _are_ wrong," Mycroft insisted.

"Then why are you here?"

"I wanted to watch some Quidditch."

"You'd go to the game in a few weeks if that were true. Coming to practise is something different entirely."

"Then what does that say about you?" Mycroft asked coldly.

Sherlock should've expected that one. "John's my best mate."

"Now who's lying?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, wondering why he was feeling so curious about his brother's sudden feelings for someone.

Maybe because he was feeling conflicted in the same way.

"So how about we make a deal?" asked Sherlock.

Mycroft glanced over with one eyebrow up, instantly interested. "What kind of deal?"

"Trade honesty for honesty."

He pursed his lips. "So if I admit I am… interested in Gregory, you'll admit that you are more than interested in John Watson?"

"Something like that," Sherlock agreed stonily.

Mycroft shook his head a little, chuckling. "A Muggleborn, of all people."

"Why does that matter?" retorted Sherlock, more defensive about it than he meant to be.

Mycroft's eyebrows raised. The sudden flare of anger surprised him too, it seemed. "Actually, it was just a comment," he said.

"Oh, come off it. You hate Muggleborns."

"No, really Sherlock, I don't. I wouldn't date one, personally, but…"

Sherlock looked over. "You always told me never to make friends with Muggleborns."

"Well you didn't make friends anyway, so it hardly mattered what I said."

"But still. If you don't hate them, then why did you say it?"

A long bout of quiet. "Because it's what I'm supposed to say."

"Says who?"

"Our ancestry."

"Whoever fornicated to create the people that fornicated to create us has nothing to do with who we should be," Sherlock said. "You should at least be clever enough to know that."

"But there are certain things expected of us, Sherlock. One of them being that we marry Purebloods."

"I don't think the extended family will care what kind of blood your partner has if they're not a woman. Do they have a distinction between homosexual and Mudblood?"

The silence was loud then, Mycroft's mind working at that. The Holmes brothers were quite similar—though they both loathed admitting it—but that was one big difference between the pair of them. Mycroft cared what people thought, even if he pretended not to at times. Social standing and people's opinions mattered to him. And Sherlock honestly didn't care about what any person thought about anything he did. Well, other than one.

"Are you admitting to being homosexual, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft with a smirk, obviously electing not to even touch Sherlock's last comment.

"I don't know, are you?"

"No."

"Then neither am I."

A bout of silence as both the Holmes boys watched the players. John swatted a Bludger hard—Sherlock was actually quite impressed with the amount of force that was obviously behind that swing—and it almost hit Greg in the head.

"Oi!" Greg said, "That was on purpose!"

"Yeah, and you dodged. Good one!"

Both of the Holmeses chuckled at the same time, and then looked at each other awkwardly.

"Oh, Sherlock, what's wrong with us?" Mycroft asked.

"Our transports have a desire for acceptance and closeness to others so strong that not even willpower like ours can properly ignore it."

"It was a rhetorical question."

"But I'm right."

He sighed. "Yes, it seems you are."

"Do you think it'll ruin us? Like you always told me when I was younger?"

A short, humourless chuckle. "I wish I knew." Then Mycroft picked up his umbrella walked towards the exit, and, like he had with Molly, he watched him leave.

Would it ruin him? What he was obviously feeling for John?

At this point, it probably made no difference. Because Sherlock couldn't control it any more than he could control the weather. He looked up to John, and this time John was looking at him too, a big grin on his face since he'd just hit another Bludger at Greg. Sherlock couldn't help but smile back.

* * *

After the training session, John was more tired than he could ever remember being, but he had promised Greg he'd give him some extra help, and he wasn't going to tell him he couldn't now. Sod his paper. He'd just stay up all night writing it. It wouldn't be the first time he couldn't sleep recently.

John flew over to the side of the stands where Sherlock was pacing.

"You alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock said absently. "Are you wearing the pin?"

John looked at him exasperatedly. "Why don't you turn your head ninety degrees and check for yourself?"

"I'll take that as a yes." Then Sherlock started towards the exit.

"Oh, you're leaving?" asked John, the disappointment in his voice completely unintentional.

"Lestrade wants to speak with you about something, but he won't do it if I'm here."

John blinked. "What's he want to talk about?"

Sherlock looked back at him. "Well I don't very well know, I'm not a mind reader."

John rolled his eyes. "Right, of course not. I'll… erm, I'll see you later?"

"Obviously."

And he was gone.

The rest of the Quidditch team was gone soon after and Madam Hooch told them that everything better be back in their proper place or she'd use a Sticking charm on their arses and attach them to rogue Bludgers. Then they were alone.

John, taking Hooch quite seriously, only wanted to use the Quaffle. He couldn't risk losing a Bludger.

So the two of them were tossing back and forth, and John was throwing them at him intentionally and laughing when Greg was indignant about it…

"So, John?" asked Greg when he caught the Quaffle again, stuffing it under his arm.

John had started to wonder if Sherlock had been wrong about wanting to talk, but apparently, he hadn't been. As usual. When was Sherlock _ever_ wrong?

"Yeah?" asked John.

"I… I was just wondering… How do you and Sherlock work?"

John stared at him. "What?"

"I only mean… you two are so different. And he's…"

"Sherlock?" John asked with a wry smile.

"Yeah, exactly," replied Greg, seeming relieved John understood.

"I don't really know, honestly. He and I… we just get each other, in some ways. But in other ways, he makes no sense at all and has no regard for how I feel… I dunno," John finished weakly.

"But how do you deal with him?"

"Ignore him when he's being a prat."

"But how do you get him to talk about how he feels?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Do you suspect Sherlock does that?"

"He must _sometimes_."

"Occasionally," John agreed. "But only when he wants to. I can't force it, not really. But where's all this coming from, anyway?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Oh, come on, you've got me being personal and you're going to keep secrets?"

"It's just… I dunno, I figured knowing how you deal with Sherlock might help me deal with Mycroft."

John was gaping again. "I didn't know you even _knew_ Mycroft."

"He's in my year."

"Well, yeah, but… are you two friends?"

"Do you imagine Mycroft has friends?"

"Well Sherlock didn't either, two months ago. Who knows anymore?"

"Good point," sighed Greg, finally letting go of the Quaffle.

"That was a good throw," said John. They threw back and forth for a few minutes again, but now they were both distracted. "Are you two… dating or something?" asked John quietly. This time he was the one who held onto the ball.

"Well… I don't really know. He's in my Study of Ancient Runes class."

"You're taking that?" asked John distastefully.

"Hey, lay off, you're taking _Arithmancy_, of all things."

John shrugged, but then said, "Did something happen today?"

"We sit together," said Greg. "The professor let us trade seats first day—"

"A lot have been this year," John chimed in.

"Yeah, I think it's McGonagall's idea, for inter-House unity or something… but anyway, we work together, and… I dunno. We kind of just clicked. Does that make any sense at all?"

John chuckled. "More than you might think."

"What, with Sherlock?"

John bit his lip and threw the Quaffle. "Like, in the friend way, yeah," said John.

"I thought we were being honest," he said as he tossed it back.

"I… I dunno," John grumbled, and for the rest of the time, he was moodily silent, but he kept thinking about it now. Mycroft might end up in a relationship? Who knew that could happen? What did that mean for Sherlock?

Not that John cared if Sherlock was capable of a relationship or not.

Which was exactly what he kept telling himself for the rest of the night.


	8. Adventure 1: The Room of Requirement

John was beyond exhausted when he got back from the pitch after helping Greg (which had concluded in brooding silence), but he really had to finish this essay. He only had a few inches left to complete, but he wasn't quite there yet and he couldn't focus, even now that it was late enough that the common room was vacant.

Or, he'd thought it was, until he heard, "JOHN!"

It was like a whisper, and it came from far too close. He jumped, looking around.

"John, the pin!" came the irritated hiss of a voice he could never confuse with another.

John slowly looked down at the Holyhead Harpies pin on his shirt. "Sherlock?" John asked incredulously.

"John, you better have this pin on you, and you better be awake. Go outside right now. I'm behind the tapestry outside the common room. Be out within a minute or I'll assume you haven't gotten the message."

"Sherlock?" John said into the pin, but there was no response. He groaned and got up, walking outside.

Then Sherlock popped out.

"Sherlock, what the hell?"

"Good, you're wearing the pin."

"What're you doing here?"

"We're finding the Room of Requirement," he said. "Since you refused earlier."

John blinked at this friend. "But why would we do it now when we could do it during the day and not even risk getting in trouble?"

"Because I don't want to wait. Ready to go?"

John sighed, knowing already that Sherlock was bound to get his way. "Yeah, I'm ready."

"Good. This shouldn't take long. There's no complex magic involved in opening the door. We'll split up. You take a few locations, I take a few, and we'll use these to contact each other," said Sherlock, gesturing to the pin on John's chest that had just spoken to him.

"Yeah, what is this thing, anyway?" John asked, looking at his pin.

"You can talk into it and we can hear each other. I just charmed them last night with my own spell. They'll work for two way communication, like with a phone. Say 'afforto' at the beginning of your message and 'quiesio' at the end."

John made a mental note of those two words, hoping he'd remember them, since it was unlikely Sherlock would be willing to repeat them. "Where's yours?"

"Oh, I enchanted my scarf. But I figured this pin would work for you."

"Why couldn't you just do my scarf?" John asked, looking at the team he didn't like with distaste.

"Because I didn't have it at the time."

"You could've asked for it." Sherlock only shrugged in response, and John rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "Tell me where to go."

It was scarier to walk through the school after hours than he remembered it being last time, but that was probably because he was alone this time.

Sherlock started on floor five, saying that it was more likely to be patrolled, and John started on floor seven. Sherlock planned to work his way up and John was to work his way down, and in case none of Sherlock's assumed locations worked, they were to meet in the middle.

As it was, John found the door on his first try.

He'd walked past the empty area Sherlock gave him to check three times, feeling like an idiot as he did so and hoping furiously that nobody caught him out of bed, and thought about what he wanted. He thought, "A room for Sherlock and I would find interesting. Somewhere no one can find us" three times, because he didn't know what else to think…

And then a door appeared, tall and skinny and coming to a point at the top. It was made of black wood and had silver and gold metal-work weaving around on it, taking no particular shape.

John gaped at it for a moment before saying the spell word "afforto" into his pin, tapping it with his wand, before half-yelling, half-whispering, "Sherlock, I found it! Seventh floor, across from the Barnabas the Barmy tapestry. Quiesio," he added, tapping it once more. Then he waited for Sherlock to arrive, the anticipation of what might be behind the door nearly killing him.

Sherlock jogged up the hallway a few minutes later and nodded in approval at the door in the wall.

"Have you looked yet?" he asked.

"No, I waited for you."

Sherlock gestured towards it. "Open it."

John nodded, still feeling a little nervous, and then he took the intricate silver and gold handle and pushed the door open.

Sherlock shoved them both inside and shut the door quickly, probably so they weren't sitting in the hall where someone could catch them, while John was still marveling at what was in front of him.

The room was fairly big, but the feeling of it being so large came less from the area of the floor than it did the height of the room, which was at least double the height of what a room would usually be. In fact, John couldn't actually see the ceiling of the room at all, because instead of a ceiling there was a stormy, gray sky. Thunder was rolling quietly, enough that it could be heard but not be distracting. It reminded him of the enchantment in the Great Hall, but that reflected the sky outside, and John knew for a fact the sky was clear tonight, so there would've been stars if this were supposed to be the sky outside. The walls of the room were decorated with a million different things, from posters of Quidditch teams and famous wizards to memory tricks for spells or posters of information for all their classes. But then there were some other things too, like recipes for off-limits potions, some rough maps of the entire area, including the Hogwarts castle, the grounds, Hogsmeade, and the Forbidden Forest. Basically, things that he and Sherlock could use to get into _huge_ trouble.

Other than the walls being utterly covered in things, there was also a fireplace that reminded John of his common room, huge soft armchairs, bookcases full of books—both textbooks and recreational reading—and there were tables that had little magical… things, for lack of better phrasing to John, because he had no idea what they were, but many of them were blowing steam or spinning or lots of other strange things. There was also a table with a modern computer and phone, which surprised John, since that kind of thing never really existed at Hogwarts. Then there was a table covered in sweets and drinks and some food that was mostly imperishable and…

Basically this was the most amazing place John had ever seen.

Even Sherlock looked completely awed as he looked around at it all. He then looked to John. "What did you ask the room for?"

"I was vague. Just somewhere the two of us would find interesting. And I added that I wanted it to be somewhere where no one could find us."

He looked around some more, his eyes distant in the way they got when he was thinking a lot of things in a short amount of time.

"Somehow, this room was able to look into our inner psyche, into our interests and our classes and our personalities, and create a place that we could use for basically anything."

He walked closer to one of the huge maps of the school, which were several metres wide each. "These maps are extraordinary," said Sherlock. "There are at least three secret passages on here that I didn't know existed. And next to any door with a password, there's a word listed… which makes me think it's the password to the door."

"No way," said John, coming over too.

"I'm nearly positive. See, right by the Hufflepuff common room it says 'tap middle barrel of the second row to the rhythm to Helga Hufflepuff', and I know from experience that is how you get into that common room. Then by Gryffindor, look."

John found the Gryffindor common room entrance on the seventh floor of the map and, indeed, right next to it, printed in small letters, it said 'Dumbledore', which was the current password.

"This is incredible."

Then Sherlock looked up. "I suppose the ceiling means that you also enjoy stormy weather," he added.

John looked over to Sherlock. "Yes, I always liked storms. You too?"

"The sound of thunder helps me to think."

"Like you need any help thinking," mumbled John teasingly.

Sherlock ignored John's sass as he normally would and said, "So you completed your first adventure."

"This actually counted as one of the adventures?" asked John. "It wasn't particularly frightening." He didn't mention how nervous he had been navigating the halls on his own.

"Maybe not," Sherlock agreed, "but this adventure has caused so many others to be possible." He gestured to the maps and potions and spells on the wall. "I can add at least three more things to my list now."

John sighed exasperatedly. "Of course you can."

"But," said Sherlock, "finding this room is completely worth any dangers it might've added to your life. We could come here whenever we please, and it has everything we could ever want."

John couldn't help but agree with that one.

"Now," said Sherlock. "Shall we stay here for the night, or go back to our common room?"

John hadn't realised staying here was an option. The thought of it made his stomach churn nervously.

"There's no beds," John said weakly.

"The room gives us whatever we want," Sherlock said. "If we walk outside and think that we want a bed this time, it'll give us one."

_One bed_, thought John, the butterflies in his gut turning to about the size of the Arcomatulas that Sherlock always said he wanted to see in the Forbidden Forest.

Before he meant to, he said, "Well I still haven't finished my paper for History of Magic, and it's due first thing in the morning. I've got to go back."

It was true, but that wasn't the real reason he couldn't stay. The real reason was… well, he wasn't completely sure, but he was suddenly so nervous that he felt like he was going to vomit.

John pretended he didn't see Sherlock's face fall. "Then we better go," Sherlock said. "Filch is due to make a round in ten minutes."

They walked out and were back at Gryffindor tower in less than five minutes, since they were already on the seventh floor.

"Goodnight John," said Sherlock quietly.

"Are you alright?" asked John, his stomach twisting again with a different kind of nerves. Like he might have hurt Sherlock's feelings or something. He never thought that was possible, but that was certainly what the look on Sherlock's face indicated.

"Of course I'm alright," snapped Sherlock. "Better be off. Mrs Norris will be here any minute."

"Want to hide in here until the round is finished?" asked John.

"No," Sherlock said shortly, walking away briskly. John sighed as he went back in the common room, and spent another night, as he often did, without any sleep at all, because his thinking was disturbing his essay writing and his essay writing was disturbing his thinking.

What the hell was happening? Things had been so simple before. But now… he didn't even know what to think anymore.


	9. Chapter 9: The Pre-Breakfast Chats

Sherlock felt utterly ridiculous as he walked back to his common room and answered the silly riddle at the door. There was this odd, painful feeling in his chest… He wanted to pretend he didn't know what it was, but honestly he did. His dazzling intellect was enough to figure something like that out.

It was embarrassment. Rejection.

It's not like he had planned to ask John to stay in the Come and Go Room with him… but once he did, it'd made him… excited.

And then John had clearly shown that he didn't want to be in that position. He said it was about an essay, but John should know better than to try to lie to Sherlock. He'd looked petrified at the suggestion.

Sherlock immediately wanted to tell both Molly and Mycroft that this was entirely their fault. He had been quite fine with ignoring how he felt, like he did every other emotion, but then the two of them had told him how he felt, and hearing it out loud made it suddenly more real.

Curse them both.

Sherlock sat up in the common room far after it had emptied of all people and the lights had all gone out, and he sat in the dark, wondering what to do next. He couldn't break off contact with John out of hurt feelings. He could hardly bring himself to be separated with John even when they were on good terms. On bad terms, it'd only be worse. But he couldn't ignore the feelings anymore either, no matter how much he wanted to.

So really, the only option was to pretend they didn't exist for John's sake. Since it made him uncomfortable. He didn't like the idea very much, but he…

Sherlock felt that for once in his life, he didn't want to be selfish. He wanted to do what was best for John. And what was best for him was to continue being his friend, to keep throwing out the adventures for him, and pretend he didn't want anything else.

Sherlock wondered what had happened to him. When he had started to want anything like this.

But maybe nothing at all happened to Sherlock. Maybe he was the same as he always was… but it was John that was different. Sherlock had always been capable of feeling this way, but there had never been a person around that merited that sort of attention. But now there was John. And if Sherlock knew anything—and he knew a _lot_ of things—it was that John was different than anyone else in the world, that he deserved the affection.

It made Sherlock smile, even through his embarrassed disappointment.

Sherlock stayed up the whole night, considering his situation with John and how exactly he planned to deal with it.

By the next morning, he had his next move mapped out perfectly in his mind—

That is, until he left the Ravenclaw tower and headed for the stairs and found John waiting for him. They usually didn't meet before classes started, since they didn't share any morning classes. Not to mention Sherlock usually left his dormitory at seven, which was much earlier than John would be willing to leave… but there John was, looking sheepish.

Sherlock could still make this work, he was sure. Seeing as his plan was to make John cross, and Sherlock could do that any time without any effort at all. His plan, simply put, was to make John forget any awkwardness that Sherlock's proposal might have caused by making him angry. John could never concentrate on other things when he was upset, and once he was over being angry with Sherlock, most likely the whole thing would be forgotten. John didn't have a very long attention span.

So all Sherlock really had to do was be himself, without putting extra effort into being a human with _feelings_, and he'd succeed with ease.

"You're up early," said Sherlock, walking by John but not stopping. John kept pace with him.

"Hey, Sherlock, I wanted to speak with you."

"Well here I am. Speak on," Sherlock replied.

"Are you going to stop walking for a moment?" asked John.

"Is it a necessity?"

John audibly exhaled in irritation. Wow, this was working even better than usual.

But then John grabbed Sherlock's arm, yanking him to a stop. Sherlock glared down at him, but John stood his ground, glaring back. How he didn't think he belonged in Gryffindor, Sherlock couldn't figure out. Simple mind, he supposed.

"Sherlock, I'm really sorry if I upset you. I didn't mean to. I was… I was in a weird mood last night," he said, obviously choosing his words with care. "So please don't be mad at me."

Sherlock was puzzled at the way this was going. The last thing he expected was an apology.

"Upset me?" Sherlock scoffed. "Do you actually believe you have enough power over me that you can upset me?"

Sherlock knew he'd gone too far the moment the words left his mouth, but he couldn't take it back now that they were out there. Though this time, they were a complete lie, which made him feel mildly guilty.

John's face seemed to harden, his mouth in a firm line of something different than anger.

And then Sherlock realised what it really was. Hurt.

"No. No, of course not," replied John, his voice sad. And before Sherlock said anything else, John went around him and strode away.

Sherlock had not intended to hurt John's feelings back. This was just going to make things worse, because now he was going to brood on it. John was not as easy to distract when he got depressed about something. Sherlock groaned aloud. And he had thought this would be simple.

* * *

Greg got to breakfast early that morning because it was hard to get a bite in when he got there at the usual time. Even now, first years (and sometimes second or third) needed his help with things. He'd learned since he became Head Boy that he had to get creative if he wanted time to eat.

Because of this, the Great Hall was nearly empty. Mostly studious Ravenclaws were awake, working away at homework. And actually… today someone was meeting him. It was the reason he wanted to talk to John the night before, but that hadn't quite gone the way he—

Then, speak of the devil, John plopped down across from him.

"John? What happened?" asked Greg, knowing that asking if he was okay was a stupid question. Even as he said it though, he was looking around for the visitor he knew would come.

"What I said yesterday about me and Sherlock getting each other, forget I ever said it," ranted John. "He's just… he's _infuriating_."

"He has a way with that."

Both Greg and John looked up to the voice, and Greg really hadn't seen him show up. He had a talent for just showing up without warning. He'd assume he Apparated, only he didn't hear the usual cracking noise that came with that type of transportation. Not to mention you couldn't Apparate in the school grounds, but Greg wouldn't even be surprised if he found a way around that.

Mycroft Holmes took a seat on John's side of the bench, setting his ever-present umbrella on the table in front of him.

"Erm… hey, Mycroft," said John awkwardly. Greg just nodded, and Mycroft met eyes with him in a way that Greg had come to assume meant he was happy to see him.

"What's Sherlock done now?" asked Mycroft.

"Why do you care?" John retorted.

Mycroft sighed. "I see Sherlock's told you his opinion of me. Contrary to popular belief, I am quite concerned about my brother's goings-on."

"Right, because you're nosey."

"No, because he's my brother."

"Right."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "I don't know if you ever considered this, John, but I raised Sherlock myself since I was six. He's the only person I ever had in my life, the only one that was even worth caring for, until I started here. All we had was each other for a long time."

John was looking up to Mycroft. Greg knew John was a very empathetic person, and thus would understand where Mycroft was coming from.

Though whether Mycroft meant what he was saying or was just playing John like a fiddle was in question. Greg had seen him manipulate enough people to know that you could never really _know_.

"If you're the one who taught him not to care, you aren't following your own advice by caring about him, now are you?"

"Ever heard 'do as I say, not as I do'?" John looked at him blandly, not convinced. Mycroft sighed once more. "Caring did a very good job of hurting me in my youth, John. I was not born made of stone. I learned from experience that to care is to be weak. That does not mean I myself do not fall to weakness on occasion. My brother… He's quite extraordinary, I'm sure you've noticed. I thought maybe he could succeed where I failed."

"You think succeeding was making him a heartless bastard? Well, good job, you _succeeded_." Then John pushed away from the table and stomped off.

Greg, until this point, had been pretending to be invisible while listening to their conversation very carefully. It was hard to learn anything about Mycroft unless you learned to get good at both eavesdropping and inferring meaning underneath seemingly nonchalant comments.

"It's possible I deserved that," said Mycroft. "I did try to protect him, by saying those things… but in some ways, John is good for him. Sherlock needs to learn not to push him away."

Then Mycroft looked up from the table at Greg.

"I'm sorry, Gregory, I'm speaking to myself."

"No, carry on. I find it interesting."

"What's going on between John and Sherlock?" enquired Mycroft.

He nodded. "He doesn't want to admit how he's feeling." He thought about when he had tried to bring it up with John the night before and had gotten completely shut down.

"Neither does my brother," admitted Mycroft.

Greg blinked. "You mean… Sherlock…"

"Has non-platonic feelings for John? Most certainly."

"Oh… wow. I didn't know he could… you know, _feel_ like that."

"Not for just anyone," said Mycroft. "But John… he cares for John. Which might be why he did whatever he did to make John upset. He's scared of how he's feeling."

"Yeah, I get that," Greg muttered, only realising after he saw Mycroft looking at him in interest that he had said it out loud. His face went hot and he knew he was blushing. "Erm… so you said you wanted to have breakfast today," Greg said as a distraction. It didn't appear to be working, so he just kept talking. "Did you want to talk about something specific, or…"

"I just wanted to sit with you." He paused. "Is that strange?"

"I… I dunno."

"Let me rephrase. Does that seem strange to _you_?"

Greg thought about that. "I don't mind, if that's what you mean."

_I was actually kind of excited about it_, he thought, and as he did, a little smile was on Mycroft's face. Greg again wondered if Mycroft was a Legilimens. He'd considered he was a few times before, since he always seemed to smirk when Greg thought something embarrassing. It made his face even redder. He grabbed some food and started scarfing it down as a way to distract himself. Probably looking really graceful, of course.

Mycroft was just so unnerving. So… otherworldly. He made Greg feel like a little child, and Greg was Head Boy, for goodness sake! Mycroft reported to him!

Which was how they met. Mycroft, along with his friends Sally, Anderson, and Molly, were prefects. He was one of the twenty four prefects that reported to Greg (since there were six for each house, a boy and a girl from fifth, sixth, and seventh year).

Then they had Study of Ancient Runes together, and they ended up, by mere fate, sitting together, when on the first day Professor Babbling said that she wanted people to try to sit with someone from another House. Neither Mycroft or Greg had anyone else to sit with, so they got shoved together… Greg could still remember that first day in Ancient Runes...

_"Gregory Lestrade," Mycroft had said._

_"Yeah, we met on the train yesterday," Greg replied._

_"We met before that, actually."_

_"We did?"_

_"First year. You dropped a book and I picked it up and handed it to you."_

_Greg had looked at him more closely then. "You remember something that happened that long ago?" _Something pretty insignificant, at that_, added Greg mentally._

_"It wasn't insignificant," said Mycroft, and Greg looked over to him._

_"Did you just read my mind?" he asked, feeling silly the moment it came out of his mouth._

_"Do you often meet people with that ability?" Mycroft asked, a small smile tugging at his lips._

_"I… erm… well, no…"_

_"I just know how people work," said Mycroft. "And you don't think you're worthy of people's notice, but you're wrong."_

_He looked back down to his book like what he'd said had been ordinary, but Greg was gaping at him (internally, at least, because he had enough sense to keep from openly staring)._

And that was the day when Greg became fascinated with Mycroft. He just was so mysterious, so intimidating, but also… Greg felt an odd pull to him.

He'd been interested ever since, and talked to him in his Ancient Runes class and tried to get him to talk back as much as he could, but there was never much chat. Not much more than the first day. Talking to Mycroft was never boring, though.

But now, Greg's interest had come to a crescendo, because of what had happened yesterday...

_Everything seemed the same as it usually was. Greg tried to pry with little questions, trying to be casual. Mycroft would answer shortly, not bothering to look up from his work when he did._

_And then Greg gave up. "You know, I'm sorry I bug you so much. I know you don't actually want to talk to me, and you're just humouring me, but you could've told me to shut it a long time ago, you know. I wouldn't have had hurt feelings." Which was half a lie, but he plowed on. "So yeah, I'll shut up now."_

_And just as Greg looked down at his work, he could feel Mycroft's eyes boring into the side of his head. He wanted to keep from looking at him, like Mycroft always could, but he lasted trying to do that for about three seconds before he had to look up, and he met his eyes._

_They were blue. Greg had never once noticed, but his eyes were blue. He wasn't sure why that mattered._

_"You wake up early for breakfast," said Mycroft._

_Greg blinked. Where did that come from? "Erm… yeah."_

_"So do I. Would you mind… if I came and sat with you?"_

_And where did that come from? Greg couldn't figure out why Mycroft would want to sit with him, but he wasn't going to tell him no. "I—oh—sure. Yeah, sure you can."_

_"Good. I will then."_

_There was a bout of quiet. "But… I thought I bored you."_

_Mycroft looked up, a smile on his lips. "You never bore me, Gregory. You just assumed. You like to assume things."_

_"Do I?" asked Greg._

_"Yes. Frequently. Especially about me."_

Damn mind reader_, thought Greg, and again Mycroft smirked like Greg's thoughts were written on his forehead. He ignored it, however, and asked, "What am I assuming about you?"_

_"Ask me again tomorrow," Mycroft replied, looking back down to his work._

Now, back in the present, here Mycroft was, just like he said he'd be.

"You know, sometimes I really wish I were a mind reader, like you think I am," Mycroft mused.

"And why is that?"

"Because I don't understand you, at times."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "You don't? I'm not particularly complicated. I'm just an ordinary—"

"See, that's what I don't get," interrupted Mycroft. "What on earth makes you think you're ordinary?"

Greg was silent for a long moment. Long enough that Mycroft continued.

"An ordinary person is manipulative. Petty. Below average in intelligence, and in looks. Is a follower, but will do whatever it takes to claw their way into somewhere better. You, you aren't ordinary. You're… you're a good person, Gregory, and that's something that comes in very short supply in humanity. I don't think you appreciate that simple truth. Being a genuine person makes you different."

"Then you don't count as ordinary either," said Greg, in order to avoid commenting on what Mycroft had said.

"No, maybe not in some ways. In other ways… I'm sadly quite as human as the next person. But you… you're different all around. Someone people would be proud to follow. Someone people aspire to be."

Greg was quiet for a long time this time, just looking at Mycroft. "You think that?"

"I just said it, didn't I?"

"I just… I never knew you spared a second thought on me."

Mycroft gave a chuckle. "You know how I said that you make assumptions about me? That was what I meant."

Greg had learned by then what Mycroft looked like when he wasn't going to speak anymore, and it had now happened. So he just grabbed himself another serving and his mind went to work processing the new information.


	10. Chapter 10: The Art of Eavesdropping

John hadn't meant to eavesdrop, originally. He was going to stomp away with dignity, go mope somewhere.

But then he'd heard the two of them start talking.

"It's possible I deserved that," he heard Mycroft say, and initially it was the fact that Mycroft had actually admitted that aloud that made John want to listen from just behind the door to the Great Hall. He had to strain to hear, but they were seated just close enough to the door John had just left through that he didn't miss anything.

"I did try to protect him, by saying those things…" he continued. "But in some ways, John is good for him. Sherlock needs to learn not to push him away. I'm sorry, Gregory, I'm speaking to myself," added Mycroft a moment later.

"No, carry on. I find it interesting."

"What's going on between John and Sherlock?" confirmed Mycroft.

"He doesn't want to admit how he's feeling," said Greg, obviously talking about John, and John had half a mind to leave from his hiding place and punch him for saying something like that to someone, except for what he heard Mycroft say next.

"Neither does my brother."

The stunned silence John experienced then must've been shared with Greg too, because he waited a long moment before he said, "You mean… Sherlock…"

"Has non-platonic feelings for John? Most certainly."

John's mouth dropped open, and he pulled himself as close to the conversation as he could without being seen.

"Oh… wow," said Greg. "I didn't know he could, you know, _feel_ like that."

"Not for just anyone. But John… he cares for John. Which might be why he did whatever he did to make John upset. He's scared of how he's feeling."

John sat and pondered that. Sherlock was pushing him away on purpose. Or maybe subconsciously, but for a reason.

And maybe what Sherlock had said about John not emotionally affecting him… it hadn't been to hurt John at all, but to convince himself that it might still be true.

John could understand that. The same way he could partially understand Mycroft, he could get Sherlock too. Or at least empathise with how he felt.

So John looked down at his pin, and he said into it, _"Afforto._ Sherlock, sorry I got all pissy. I was just up all night. Would you meet me by the lake? _Quiesio."_

John wasn't sure what he was going to say—since he wasn't near ready to confront whatever was really going on between the two of them—but he didn't want to fight with him either. It was exhausting and made for a terrible day.

John went and sat by the lake, staring out at it, at how it was sparkling yellow and green in the sunlight, making the name The Black Lake seem oddly ironic, since the only colour it _didn't_ have right now was black.

He thought maybe Sherlock wasn't coming at first, since he got no response, but then Sherlock sat down next to him, tucking his knees up in his chest in a way that seemed like something a little child would do. But Sherlock didn't carry himself like a child, that was for sure. He was too graceful, too darkly intriguing for that.

"I shouldn't have said what I did," Sherlock said immediately after he sat.

"It's okay," John said. "I know you didn't really mean it. You just… get like that."

There was quiet for a moment. Then, "Why didn't you sleep?" asked Sherlock.

John looked over to him, surprised by the question. "You don't have to pretend to care about that, Sherlock. I told you, I forgive you."

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together. "If I didn't care, I wouldn't have asked."

John wasn't quite sure how to answer… so he answered honestly. "Partly I was working on that essay. Which I eventually finished. But then I was also worrying that I had hurt your feelings."

"My feelings are fine," replied Sherlock blandly.

"Sherlock…" John said. "You don't have to pretend with me, you know. I know you."

"I'm not pretending anything," said Sherlock. "My feelings really are fine."

"But they weren't last night?" asked John.

Annoyed quiet. "Nothing irreparable, John. And it's been repaired. So could we just forget it ever happened?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," replied John.

"Good," said Sherlock. "Then we can go onto the next adventure."

"Already?"

"No time like the present."

John sighed. "Alright, then what do we do now?"

"We need to go back to the Room of Requirement to decide that," said Sherlock.

* * *

Molly was sitting at a nearby tree when she heard John and Sherlock talking. How first they seemed to be making up after some sort of argument, and then talked about going on an 'adventure' and going back to the Room of Requirement.

_Back?_ wondered Molly idly. She wasn't surprised that the Come and Go Room was a topic of interest for the two of them, who commonly looked like they were going to get into trouble together ever since they met at the beginning of the school year, but if they were going _back_, that meant they'd actually found the room.

She considered, very shortly, whether or not she should follow them when they stood up. Then, after an extremely brief debate in her mind, she got up and shadowed them.

See, for Molly Hooper, life was constantly boring. It always had been. She learned from a very young age that if she wanted to experience anything interesting, she'd have to do it vicariously through others.

And thus, Molly was an incurable eavesdropper. She heard a great deal of things when she was just sitting by herself. And she'd gotten good at it, able to listen to more than once conversation at once while still being aware of the other things happening around her.

Though, being a skilled eavesdropper was hardly a useful talent, she supposed, but it made life much more exciting. She was eternally an observer, one that knew a lot about many people without them understanding why. And she didn't mind that being the truth of her life, that she would never be the middle of the action, but just watch it from the sidelines. Usually.

So she followed behind them closely enough that she could hear what they said, but far enough that they didn't seem to notice someone was behind them. If she followed them, she could possibly find out where the Room of Requirement was, which would be a great thing to know. Even the thought that either of them might catch her wasn't enough to deter her from that.

Because listening to John and Sherlock was different to listening to other people. John, she'd known most of her life. They lived near each other in the Muggle world, and though she had known she was a witch before he even realized they existed, they'd still been rather close in their youth. At a time, she'd had a bit of a crush on him, but got over it quickly when she realised they were better as friends.

Sherlock though… she'd been interested in him for years. On the first day of this school year, she'd seen him in the carriage with them immediately when nobody else had, staring outside. And when he'd said they were Thestrals and that they were seen by someone who could see death, she'd been amazed. Because she had always been able to see the winged horses in front of the carriages, but she never said anything about it because she didn't want people to think she was crazy. But when Sherlock said that, it all made sense. Molly had been in the room when her grandmother died when she was four. It hadn't been too scarring or anything, as she'd died peacefully, but now she understood why she could see the beasts that nobody else could.

Sherlock had always been a point of interest for her. Everyone else thought he wasn't worth paying any attention to, but she couldn't see how they could feel that way. He was just so clever, so interesting…

So she was more interested in John and Sherlock than she was most other people, which made it nearly impossible for her not to listen in when they spoke near her, but at the same time, she really didn't want to risk them catching her at it either, because she didn't want them not to trust her or to avoid her…

Anyway, she was tailing them, and they hadn't noticed her… until she heard another conversation taking place in a shadowy corner of the grounds that seemed much more vital. She, with mild disappointment, let the two boys walk away. They were bound to go to the Room again eventually.

Because the whispered conversation was taking place between two professors. Professor Slughorn, the Potions master, and Professor Moriarty, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

"So what did you want to talk about?" asked Slughorn, sounding more irritated than he might usually. "I've got papers to grade."

"Well," said Moriarty in that wavering, singsong way of his, "I actually wanted to speak with you about management."

Molly wanted to be able to see them, so she got a vial out of her pocket. It was a bit of Invisibility Potion. So 'not allowed' that she couldn't even describe it, but for someone who snooped into people's lives as often as she did, she pretty much had to carry a bit of this around all the time. For emergencies only, but this looked like it was going to be interesting, so he swigged it down. It took a few seconds, and then she looked down at herself and she wasn't there anymore. Only then did she peek her head out to look at them. She could only see Slughorn's face. Moriarty's back was to her.

"Management?" Slughorn asked with an eyebrow up. "I haven't the faintest clue what you mean."

"I mean…" Moriarty murmured. "Can we speak to each other openly?"

"Of course we can, Jim."

"You're a Slytherin, same as me. You're Head of House. If anything, you have the House's best interests at heart even more than I."

"I always try to do what's best for the students, yes."

"So you'd do anything you had to?" Moriarty persisted. "To do what's best for them?"

"I don't understand what you're getting at here, James," said Slughorn warily, and Molly was surprised to see him so apprehensive, as he was usually pretty jovial. Maybe a little stand-offish at times, but mostly happy, even under pressure. In fact, both of them seemed off. Moriarty, who was usually hyper and fun, seemed suddenly reserved, business-like. His voice was hypnotic and quiet, and he wasn't waving his arms emphatically like he might usually.

"What I'm getting at," said Moriarty, "is that I wonder what your opinion is on how Minerva has been running things lately."

Slughorn's concern seemed to lessen then, but was replaced with some dark emotion. "You know how I feel about it, I'm sure."

"Yes, I thought I did," agreed Moriarty dramatically. "I only wanted to hear it from you, Horace."

"Well," said Slughorn. "I think that there are students who will succeed and there are ones who won't. And Minerva's new policy of having all the Houses intermingle, at meals and in classes, is causing the more impressive students to become… distracted."

"Especially our fellow Purebloods?" asked Moriarty, walking around Slughorn so Molly could see his face. She had to bite her tongue to keep from gasping. He looked… wrong. She couldn't explain how, exactly, but something in his eyes… he looked _evil_, suddenly.

And Slughorn looked truly frightened, now that Moriarty couldn't see his face. He refused to turn and look at him while he spoke. "I… I do admit… Don't get me wrong, I don't hate Muggleborns. I'm no You-Know-Who supporter, Jim."

"I understand, Horace," said Moriarty. "But still. They're just not the same as Pureblood wizards, are they?"

Horace looked really nervous now. "What are you saying, James?"

"I'm saying that Minerva's way of leading this school is going against the tradition of the establishment. What do you think Salazar Slytherin would think of where this school has gone, Horace?"

"He'd despise it, of that I'm sure. But I still don't know what you're getting at, James," he said impatiently.

"I'm only considering that this school might need new leadership. To bring it back to what the founders originally intended."

"I… Maybe you're right," Slughorn said.

And then a huge grin appeared on Moriarty's face, his eyes twinkling like they normally did. He began to clap. "Oh, bravo, Horace. That was a wonderful show." His voice was right back to its ordinary, singsong quality.

"W—what?"

Moriarty laughed dramatically. "You plan to go to the Headmistress right now and hand her the memory right out of your head."

"What do you mean, Jim?" asked Slughorn, but he looked more nervous than before.

"Do you imagine you can lie to me?" he asked, still grinning like an utter madman.

"I… listen, Jim."

"You had your chance to be honest. You lied. So time for plan B. _Imperio_."

Slughorn suddenly stood stalk straight, a dreamy smile on his face.

"Much better," said Moriarty in a satisfied tone. "Now I just need to get the rest of the professors on board with me. But you can help with that, can't you, Horace?"

Slughorn nodded sleepily and giggled.

"Good. Start with Sybill. She's so strange already that nobody will notice if she's under an enchantment. And I'll just walk you to the castle now. The charm feels funny at first, I wouldn't want you getting to dizzy. You'll get used to it though, don't worry."

Slughorn nodded again, and he started to walk away. Molly stepped back slowly, not even daring to breath. She'd just seen a professor use an Unforgivable Curse on another teacher. And was going to have _that_ professor cast more on other professors on top of that. If he was willing to do _that_… what would he do to her?

But she stopped in her pondering a moment later, because she noticed something that made her skin crawl. Moriarty, while walking with Slughorn, looked _straight_ _at_ _her_.

"I'll be back for you in a minute," he whispered. "You just stay there," he added with a flick of his wand, and simultaneously, she felt two things happen at once. First, she couldn't move her feet. Like they were stuck to the ground. And second, there was a full feeling in her throat. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

Yes, it seemed she'd have to wait.

She panicked. What could she do? What was he going to do to her? Imperius her too?

Quickly, completely on impulse, she got out a piece of parchment from her robe, glad that she was able to move her hands. She scribbled something down as fast as she could and shoved it in her bra. Not that Moriarty was above checking a bra, necessarily, but it was safer than a pocket. It was another minute before Moriarty returned.

"Molly Hooper," he said. "Now, now, eavesdropping, are you? That's never a good idea, even invisibly. See, I would put you under the Imperius curse, only students wouldn't be helpful, in this case. And I can't very well kill you. People would notice."

Molly was staring at him, wide eyed, trying to think of anything but what she really wanted to. If he was skilled at Legilimency, she had to think about only immediate details. His shirt had a stain on it. Her nose itched, but she was too afraid to move.

"I think a forgetfulness charm would do. _Obliviate_."

She had only a moment to be relieved that she wrote the note before everything went black.

* * *

Molly woke up by the tree next to the lake, groggy. Oh, had she fallen asleep? Damn, she'd meant to follow Sherlock and John, who were talking about… something… Oh yeah, the Room of Requirement. But then… she hadn't gotten much sleep. So she must've dozed off.

"Hello, Ms Hooper."

She looked up and saw Professor Moriarty walking by, and she waved at him with a smile. She'd always liked him.


	11. Adventures 2, 3, 4: The Sleepless Trials

John and Sherlock were sitting in the Room of Requirement, looking through the prank potions listed all over the walls. Sherlock had not yet mentioned why they were looking through them, but he didn't really expect him to. Sherlock did like his secrets, especially when it came to things like this. All he said was to look for potions that could have 'humorous' effects. He noted down a few things, like a hair-raising potion, a voice-changing potion, an aging potion, and a befuddlement charm.

But then John checked the time. "Oh no," said John. "I've got to get to class." They still hadn't decided on a potion.

"Oh, don't worry John, we'll have plenty of time to do an adventure or two tonight."

"Or two?" John asked incredulously.

"Or three," Sherlock amended. "And start a fourth."

"You must be joking."

"Do I often joke, John?"

John grumbled. "No, I suppose not."

"Exactly. See you at lunch."

And then Sherlock walked out, not waiting for John to follow.

"So dramatic," he muttered before following him out the door a moment later.

Wednesday was good and bad for John. It was bad because it was one of the two days a week that he had no classes with Sherlock. But it was good because he and Sherlock both had a free period in the second hour after lunch, meaning they had more time before dinner than they usually did. Then again, today it looked like that free time was going to get him into a load of trouble, so maybe he didn't like it after all.

He had History of Magic and Herbology in the morning, feeling guilty again the moment he saw Professor Longbottom. Especially when he greeted John enthusiastically when he walked in. John ignored the feeling as best he could.

Then Professor Longbottom stopped him on his way out of the greenhouse. "John," he said. "Could I speak with you?"

He sounded as good-natured as usual, but that didn't mean he didn't know the truth anyway. John tried to look nonchalant as he stopped retreating from the classroom. The professor waited until the other students left to speak, only making John more nervous.

"Really great job with the Mimbulus today," said Longbottom. "I really like those plants, as you know, but… they can be quite touchy. You were the only one that left without being covered with Stinksap."

It was true. John was still relatively clean, miraculously. Especially considering how tired he was from not sleeping a wink the night prior. He was surprised he hadn't fallen over yet.

"I've also spoken to Slughorn lately, who said that you're a star at Potions," Longbottom continued.

John embarrassedly shrugged.

"I only wondered if you've ever thought about being a Healer?"

John was surprised by the statement. "Actually, yes," he said. "My friends say it's not a cool job."

Longbottom rolled his eyes. "And people told me I was mad to quit at the Auror's department to be a teacher, but I like it ten times better here, if I'm being honest." He grinned. "So do whatever you want with your life, John. It doesn't matter what other people think."

"Okay," John said, getting ready to leave again.

"But, one more thing," added the professor. "I just know… you're friends with Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes…" John said, getting nervous again.

"Well, after he asked about the Room of Requirement yesterday, I only worried… you seem like a good kid. Could you just make sure… make sure he doesn't go looking for it?"

John kept a straight face somehow. "Honestly, how would he be able to find it? Like he said yesterday, there's too many possibilities of where it could be."

"But he wants to find it," he said. Not a question.

John sighed. "Yes, I guess that's true. He said he's pretty sure it's near the kitchens."

The lie came to him quite suddenly, and it did the trick. Professor Longbottom poorly hid his relief. "Oh, well, kids will be kids, I suppose," he said. "Anyway, have a good day, John."

"You too, sir," John replied, exhaling in relief as he walked out of the Greenhouse. How he dodged that minefield, he hardly knew.

* * *

John got out of his third and final class of the day, Charms, feeling nervous. As usual, Sherlock was right outside.

"So what all are we doing tonight?" asked John.

"Oh, many things," said Sherlock mischievously.

"Sherlock, I didn't _sleep_ last night!" moaned John. "You're fine with no sleep, I know, but I need it! Can't we do this tomorrow?"

"Doing all these things sleep deprived is part of the difficulty, John. That's exactly why I planned this all for today. You've been up for, what, thirty hours now?"

"Something like that, yeah," sighed John, getting even more tired just thinking about it.

"Then you're to stay up for ten more. That's how long we'll work on these adventures."

"Sherlock, I'll die."

"I won't let you die. I'll even let you use a Wideye potion, if you'd like, but you have to make it yourself."

"Sherlock, do you understand how finicky that potion is? I could never make it like this!"

"It's all a part of the challenge, John."

"How does any of this prove I'm brave?" he complained.

"Gryffindors aren't just brave, John. That's the most popular trait spoken about, yes. But they are also chivalrous and determined. We already know you're chivalrous. You're that type of person. But true determination is getting all these things done when all you want to do is sleep."

John grimaced at Sherlock's logic. "Fine. But if I die, I'll come back as a ghost and haunt you."

"Fair enough," Sherlock agreed, and they headed back to the Room of Requirement.

* * *

When they arrived to their hideaway, they were surprised to find that the contents of the room had slightly changed.

Mostly, it was the same, but next to the puffy purple armchairs that sat by the fire, there was also a bed.

John embarrassedly looked to Sherlock. John had been the one to open the door, so that meant he was the reason the bed had appeared. "I must've been thinking about sleep when I opened it and the room noticed," said John sheepishly.

"No matter," replied Sherlock. "It'll only make it harder not to sleep when you're so close to a bed." John groaned, and Sherlock smiled mischievously. "Now, seeing as you're handicapped today, I've decided I'll inform you of all we have to get done."

"Wait, you're not going to hide it from me 'til the last second like a prat?" John asked dryly.

John's attempt to annoy Sherlock just rolled off, as usual. "If you'd rather not know, I can keep you in the dark, of course."

"No, tell me," John said. "Please," he added.

Sherlock nodded. "Our goals today are this: One, you will use the One-Eyed Witch Passage that I have now discovered thanks to this map in order to go to Honeydukes."

"What, you fancy some sweets?"

"The passage is dark and boring and long, which'll tire you out. Plus, you'll have to steal things once you get there, and it's closed today because Ambrosius Flume, the owner, is extremely sick. Honeydukes has been shut down for a week. Thus, it's the perfect time to have you break in."

"And if I get caught?" asked John.

"That's the point, remember? The more danger of getting caught or hurt, the better the challenge."

"Or _hurt_?" complained John.

"I'll heal whatever you hurt, John," he said passively, like John was completely overreacting. "Then, after that," Sherlock plowed on, "you are going to steal a book from the Restricted Section of the library."

"Without permission, I presume."

"Precisely."

"But I'm a sixth year. I could easily get permission from Professor Moriarty."

"John, do you not get the point of these trials?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Right, sorry. What's the third?" John asked with a yawn.

"The last thing is for you to swim in the Black Lake for a half hour."

John gaped at him. "You mean the lake that supposedly has a giant squid, Grindylows, and homicidal mermaids?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"Not to mention it's _freezing cold, _Sherlock."

It was like Sherlock didn't hear him at all. "And while you do all of this, I am going to continue what we started this morning and find a potion for you to brew. Once I find said potion, I will have you steal the ingredients you need from the professor's Cupboard and start the potion today. Likely it will need some time to stew after you've done the beginning preparations, so you won't be doing anything with it today."

"And what am I doing with the potion once it's finished?"

"That I'll tell you later," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes, but then looked at Sherlock with his eyes wide. "Wait. I'm doing all this _while_ you look for potions? So I'm doing it alone?"

"Yes. I figured that would make it more unnerving."

John grimaced at Sherlock. "Okay, what if I just tell you I believe I'm a Gryffindor. Would you give this up?"

"If I believed you, possibly."

He glared again, but didn't have a reply for that, so said instead, "And if you're not there, how do you know I did it?"

"Because I'll be using that pin the whole time to contact you. And sure, you could lie over the pin, but the moment I saw you I'd know the truth."

John thought about denying it, but he knew it was true. He sighed once more. "Fine. When do I start?"

"Now."

* * *

Sherlock took John to the One-Eyed Witch passage entrance, and then started to go back to the Room of Requirement to look at potions.

"Wait, Sherlock," John said only moments after Sherlock walked away from the entrance. "I just went down a slide to get down here. How am I supposed to get back up on the way back?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

He never knew it could be so much fun to convince someone they were courageous. Sherlock was already back in the room, looking through the posters on the walls and the books on potions when John contacted again.

"Okay, I'm walking," John muttered through the pin. Sherlock could hear the fatigue in his voice even though the magical long-distance communication.

"Good. Now just keep doing that for another hour. And then another hour to get back. And then somehow climb up that slide."

A short silence. Then, "Oh, is that _all_, then?"

"And make sure to steal enough to keep your hands full."

"Right," muttered John.

Sherlock smirked, and then got back to looking through potions. He hadn't decided who he wanted John to give the potion to yet, but he figured there were a few options that would prove entertaining. The best type of person would be someone who's difficult to trick.

And just as he thought that, he flipped past a potion called "Enamouring Infusion". He thought it was a silly choice, at very first glance, until he read the description. "Amplifies preexisting romantic feelings in the victim and causes impaired judgment and heightened confidence in regard to the person of their affection. Is sometimes taken on purpose to make a person confident enough to speak to a person they otherwise are too nervous or proper to speak with."

And Sherlock got the most wonderful idea. Who said this couldn't both be a test for John and completely entertaining for Sherlock at the same time?

Now that Sherlock knew what John was going to brew, he got to work on his own Wideye potion. He had a feeling that John would get desperate and try to make one when he got back from Honeydukes, but Sherlock knew that he'd make it wrong, and it was true that he wasn't _trying_ to get John hurt. So he'd make John steal the ingredients and try to make it, but when it failed horribly, Sherlock would have some that was correct for him. It was quite generous of him to lend the help at all, he thought, and cursed the fact that the thought of John getting hurt because of him was so unpleasant for him.

Sherlock talked to John often enough on the pin to know he was still walking, but he was taking longer than he should have. The Wideye Potion had a ninety-five minute stew time after the initial preparations, and John still wasn't back when it was already finished, meaning he was taking much longer than he was supposed to.

When he was supposed to be back an hour ago, Sherlock finally contacted him. "John, are you almost here?"

"How should I know? This whole path looks the—oh. I just found the slide. But how the bloody hell do I get up it with all these sweets in my hand?"

"Oh, you'll do fine," Sherlock assured him.

John entered the Room of Requirement ten minutes later with his arms positively full of sweets.

"How did you do it?" asked Sherlock.

"_Wingardium_ _Leviosa_ on every damn piece," John said.

"And how'd you get up the slide?"

"It wasn't smooth rock," said John. "I just climbed."

"But it took fifteen minutes."

He went red. "It'd have taken shorter if I weren't exhausted."

"Of course it would. You want to try making that Wideye potion now before you go to your next task? Then it'll be ready by the time you're back from your next task."

John sighed. "Oh, fine."

Sherlock gave him the list of what to steal for both the Wideye Potion and the Enamouring Infusion from the Professor's Cupboard and John shuffled out of the room, hardly able to pick up his feet anymore.

John said there was nobody in the Storeroom when he arrived, so that part had actually been quite simple.

But then Sherlock was left actually cringing as he watched John make this Wideye Potion. Added three extra snake fangs, cooked it on high for too long, stirred anti-clockwise instead of clockwise… And John was fantastic at Potions too, Sherlock knew from being in his class this year. He must've been really exhausted. Sherlock was instantly glad he'd made his own so that he could trade them out when he wasn't paying attention. Since John would have to make the Enamouring Infusion later, which he couldn't get wrong because it took four days to stew, he'd need the energy.

While John thought his potion was stewing, he went to go get the book from the Restricted Section.

"What book do I get?" asked John.

"Anything, I don't care."

John succeeded in that too, and wasn't gone for very long, at that. Sherlock was able to convince him, however, that he was gone for ninety-five minutes and that his potion was ready. John was too tired to complain.

Once he took it, his eyes didn't look so droopy and he got a little lift to his step.

"Sherlock, I really hate you, you know that?" he said as he started to prepare the Enamouring Infusion under Sherlock's advice to do it when he had his newfound energy.

"Yes, I'm aware," said Sherlock.

"So who are we giving this potion to, anyway?" asked John.

"Oh, you can worry about that four days from now," Sherlock replied, smirking to himself at the thought of what a wonderful day that would be.

Sherlock watched very carefully as John made this potion, but this time John did everything perfectly, since he had the Wideye potion in him. The effects only lasted an hour though, so right around the time he was setting it aside to begin to stew, his eyes were drooping once more.

"Lastly, you'll be swimming in the lake," said Sherlock.

"Do I have to?" groaned John.

"You're almost done, John," Sherlock replied. "I said you had until two to finish, and you're already almost done and dinner hasn't even ended yet."

"Then can we eat now?"

Sherlock took pity on his poor John then. He sighed.

"Alright, how about this. We'll stop by the Great Hall for some food and I'll go out there with you to the Lake. Then I'll let you go back to the common room. Does that sound fair?"

"Way more fair than I expected," said John. "Good, let's go."

Sherlock sat impatiently as John scarfed down a great deal of food, which again replenished his energy just the slightest bit. Then Sherlock walked outside with John in the gathering dark.

"We're not supposed to be out here right now," said John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What about the fact that we're _supposed_ to be breaking the rules don't you get?"

"I only mean that you came out with me," said John.

"What, do you think I'm afraid to break rules?"

"Well… you didn't go with me earlier."

"That was to make it more difficult for you, not to help myself."

"So if I were in danger, you'd save me?"

Sherlock thought it was an odd question. Something John wouldn't normally ask, in his normal mental state, Sherlock was sure.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Of course I would."

"Even if it could endanger yourself?" added John.

Sherlock thought about that before answering, because he was curious about that question himself. Did Sherlock count John as more important than himself?

It didn't take long for him to answer that though. "Yes," Sherlock replied.

"Me too," John replied, and then he started stripping off his clothes in order to get into the Lake. Sherlock was glad it was dark so that John didn't notice when he accidentally blushed at John undressing. He looked out at the water to keep from looking at John.

John was swimming around with Sherlock's pin in his hand (since it still worked in water) for twenty minutes when one of John's responses came in with his teeth chattering so much that Sherlock could not understand him.

"Okay, John, maybe you should come back. You could get hypothermia, at this rate."

"No," John said back fiercely. "I have to do the whole thirty minutes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Oh yeah, John wasn't a Gryffindor at _all_. Courageous? Determined? Of _course_ not.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock told John to come back, that his time was up, and John was shaking uncontrollably by then. Sherlock cursed himself for giving John this task. Sure, John would be okay, but he should have thought of this. The water was, in fact, cold even during the day, let alone when night had fallen.

Sherlock helped John put his robes back on and put his arm around him as he took him back into the castle. Luckily, people were still at dinner, so they weren't breaking the rules by being out of their common rooms yet. Sherlock just had to avoid anyone that would ask why John was wet, which he did well. He had to duck behind a statue in order not to be seen by McGonagall, but eventually got them both back to the Room of Requirement without getting awkward questions.

When they got back inside, there was already a fire roaring in the fireplace and a stack of blankets and a set of John-sized pyjamas by the armchairs. The room always knew what they needed. John got into the new, dry clothes and Sherlock piled blankets on him and shoved the chair as close to the fire as he could get it.

John hadn't spoken since he got out of the water. "Why are you doing all this?" he finally asked, his eyes almost shutting.

"John, how stupid are you? I'm not going to let you die of hypothermia."

"Well, I know _that_, but you're being so… helpful."

"I'm capable of that occasionally," Sherlock said dryly.

John shrugged, but even under the blankets was still shivering. He needed more heat.

Body heat, specifically.

Without thinking about it too much before doing it, Sherlock took off his cloak and shirt and got under the blanket in the chair that was just barely big enough to fit them both side by side. He thought maybe, after he'd already sat, that he was going to make John uncomfortable, but apparently John was too tired to care, because he immediately leaned into Sherlock, pressing his icy nose to his bare chest.

"Thank you," John mumbled into his skin.

"You're welcome," Sherlock replied quietly.

And in the chair by the fire, they both fell asleep.


	12. Chapter 12: The Denial Duo

The very first thing John noticed when he was awake was that he was extremely comfortable.

The second thing he noticed was that he probably shouldn't have been since he was not laying down, but sitting up with half his face pressed against something that felt nothing like a pillow.

Then he noticed he was sitting in a soft chair, and there was a fire crackling nearby… had he fallen asleep in the common room? He never remembered going back to the common room, actually. He'd been in the Room of Requirement with Sherlock and then he'd—

Then he remembered. He'd never left the room. He'd been freezing from swimming in the lake, and then Sherlock had sat next to him beneath the blankets, and John had been so damn cold that he couldn't feel awkward about pressing as closely to Sherlock as he could to keep warm…

And that's where he still was. Basically _snuggling_. With _Sherlock_.

And maybe the strangest thing about that was the fact that he didn't want to move, even now that he realised that the thing against his face that didn't feel like a pillow was actually Sherlock's chest.

_Especially now_, he admitted to himself. Silently in his own head, he could admit that _something_ was going on with Sherlock. It still made no sense, seeing as John had never liked a guy before…

And Mycroft had said that Sherlock liked him too. John had elected not to even think about that whole conversation the day before, but now, when he was pressed against Sherlock, it was harder to ignore.

Not that it mattered. It's not like they could do anything about how they felt—if they both definitely felt that way. What were they gonna do, start dating?

His mind almost seemed to go silent at that, all of the denial and protests and confusion shutting up and listening in to what he had just said. Like every part of his brain agreed with the idea.

_Yeah, do that_, he nearly heard in his head.

He couldn't just—they couldn't—this was Sherlock they were talking about—he couldn't—

"You're thinking so hard I can nearly hear your cogs racing along," said Sherlock amusedly. John hadn't even known he was awake.

"Sorry," John muttered.

"No apology required. You didn't die during the night, so I suppose you warmed up properly."

"Erm, yeah, I guess so," John agreed, standing up and stretching. God, it was nice to sleep. He slept better than he had in weeks, actually. Strange.

"Well, you've got to get to Defense Against the Dark Arts soon," said Sherlock. "Professor Longbottom wouldn't be too angry if I was late, but Professor _Moriarty_," he said the name like it tasted bad, "might murder you, especially considering you're Muggleborn."

"Sherlock, for the last time, he's _not_ evil."

"A book of apologies, John. Remember that."

Then he strode from the room.

Sherlock was right when he said they were running behind. John quickly went to the Great Hall to get a piece of toast to shove into his mouth, since he barely had five minutes before class started.

"Damn, John, who've you been banging?"

John was surprised to hear her, since she never talked to him anymore. But, at the moment, Sherlock wasn't attached to his hip.

"I haven't been banging anyone, Sally," John said.

"Well you've got some major bedhead then," she said, chuckling.

He self-consciously smoothed down his hair and straightened out his robes. He still smelled like a weird mixture of Enamouring Infusion, the lake, and sweets. Maybe he should've skipped breakfast and taken a shower instead of the other way around.

"Yeah, just woke up late and didn't have any time to get ready," said John.

"Where's the freak, then?" she asked in a casual tone.

John looked at her with a glower. "You're referring to my best friend as 'freak' to my face? Really?"

Her eyebrow went up. "Your best friend?" she enquired.

"We've been together every day since this school year started. What did you _think_ that meant?"

"That you were pitying him. That he followed you home one day and you never got him to leave you be. I dunno."

"Well, not that it's any of your business, but I spend time with him because I like him."

She shook her head, her expression incredulous. "John, do you honestly know a thing about him? Like, _really_ know him?"

"What, is there something you know that you think would change my opinion of him?"

She looked around a moment, and then pulled him to the side. He kept from sighing with some effort. He was already behind this morning, so with this conversation he'd gotten sucked into, there was no way he was going to get anything to eat.

"Do you remember in third year when Sabrina Morgan died and it was officially called an accident, but everyone really thought it was murder?"

"Yeah, how could I forget?"

"Well, Sherlock was intrigued with the whole thing. And mind you, he was twelve at the time, since he was a second year. And when he heard about her death, when everyone else was sad for the loss, he looked like he was about to jump for joy. Then he kept trying to get to the place where she died, but nobody would let him in… for days, he was happy like that. I've never seen him like that since. John, he _likes_ death. He gets off on it. Doesn't that strike you as strange?"

John, it just so happened, had heard the situation from Sherlock's point of view once. When he was trying to get into the 'crime scene', or whatever they were calling it, he was trying to figure out how she died. He wasn't excited that she died, but to figure out how it happened. He was a detective, at heart, John had already known that. Sure, Sherlock was strange, but he didn't wank himself to the photo of a dead girl either.

"I'm not convinced he wasn't the one that killed her," Sally continued.

Actually, the reason John heard the story at all was because Sherlock had a theory on who had done it too. Sherlock had tried to convince John that Professor Moriarty had killed Sabrina, since she had been a Muggleborn, but gave up because, since the case was years old, there was no evidence left and just Sherlock trying to convince him wasn't enough for him to believe it.

"Well, thanks for letting me know, Sally," John said, trying really hard not to sound patronising as he said it, but he was pretty sure he failed. He glanced over to the tables, and the food had already vanished, as it was time for class. Damn it.

John then walked around Sally.

"John, I'm only trying to protect you," she said.

He turned to her. "And I appreciate the concern, really I do, but I know Sherlock better than you might think. I trust him, whether you do or not."

Before Sally could say more, John walked out of the Great Hall…

And Sherlock was in stride with him in seconds, and—bless him—he had a piece of toast in his hand.

"I knew Donovan was going to keep you held up long enough that you wouldn't get to eat."

"So did you hear everything she said, then?" asked John with his mouth full of bread.

"She actually thinks I murdered Sabrina Morgan?" Sherlock scoffed, effectively answering John's question. "Honestly, how thick could she get? What motive did I have to murder a prefect when I was _twelve_?"

"Well, probably she figures it's because of the Pureblood thing," said John. "Since the girl was a Muggleborn."

"And that makes me guilty? That could be any Slytherin in the school, and some Gryffindors, at that. That makes her own _boyfriend_ a suspect. But," Sherlock added thoughtfully, "that does include the person who actually did it."

"God, not this again."

"John, I'm telling you, something is _wrong_ with him. Haven't you smelled him? His aftershave is far too sweet for—"

"Once you come to me with some solid proof, I'll believe you," John said. "But this is my classroom. See you later."

He went inside before Sherlock could say anything more about Moriarty being evil, especially considering he was entering Moriarty's classroom in the first place. Moriarty was pretty laid back, but even he would take offence to being called a murderer, John was sure.

* * *

"You look like shit," Greg said bluntly, intercepting John on his way to lunch.

"Wow, thanks."

"I just mean you look like you spent the night fucking," he said with a chuckle.

"Yeah, that's what Sally implied too."

A pause. "You didn't, did you?" he asked.

"What? No!"

"Only wondering."

"Who do you think I'd be sleeping with, anyway?"

"Well…"

John cut him off. "Nevermind, I don't want you to say it."

"It's okay to like him, you know."

"Shhh," John muttered. "He hears _everything_, okay? You can't just talk about it in the halls."

"Why does it matter if he knows? You both fancy each other. It's obvious."

"Coming from you, that's rich," replied John. "We're both Holmes-sexual, I guess," John added.

"Oh, you're admitting it?"

John sighed. "Does it matter if I admit it at this point? What do you think's going to happen between us?"

"Anything you want, John."

"Well then, the moment you and Mycroft go public, I'll think about talking to Sherlock. Sound fair?"

Greg went red and began to walk faster as to lose John, which had been his goal in the first place.

But he couldn't help but feel the words were getting to him, crawling into his mind intoxicatingly.

_Talk to him. It couldn't hurt_, his mind said to him.

But it could hurt, that was the thing. It could hurt a _lot_.

And that's why John kept silent.

* * *

**Sorry if this chapter was boring. It's a bit of a transition chapter. Needed for plot reasons, but void of action. Sorry about that. But the next chapter'll be fun, worry not!**


	13. Adventure 5: The Drugged Lovebird

Friday night, just as John was getting into bed, the pin on his bedside table spoke to him. He was glad all this roommates were asleep already.

"John, the potion you started on Tuesday is ready. Meet at the Room of Requirement?"

John picked up the pin and murmured 'afforto' into it before whispering, "Sure, just give me ten minutes to get dressed."

John was starting to get less nervous every time he left the room. He'd never been close to getting caught. Then again, the moment he got too comfortable was the night he was going to pass by Mrs Norris, so he still needed to keep on his guard.

But like every other time he went to the Room of Requirement, he met nobody. Sherlock was already inside, looking down at the pinkish-purple potion that had a golden sheen to it in the light.

"This looks perfect, John. Nice work."

John smiled a little at the praise, since it was uncommon from Sherlock. "So are you going to tell me what I'm doing with this stuff now that I made it?" he asked.

"That's why I called you here. Actually, my plan is to give it to my brother."

John's mouth popped open. "You want me to give it to _Mycroft_?"

"Yes. He and Lestrade have unresolved feelings floating around, and I think that this is just what he needs in order to make things more official."

John stared at Sherlock for another second before he started laughing hard at the thought of this.

"This is going to be amazing," said John.

"Indeed. But you need to think of a way to sneak it into his system without him knowing. And don't forget that not only is it against the rules to give someone a potion without permission, but that Mycroft will likely do horrible things to you if he knows it's you."

"Erm… thanks for telling me?" John said dryly.

"Just keeping you nervous, John. It's all about you overcoming fear. That's what bravery is. Being afraid isn't the problem, it's putting the fear aside and getting something done anyway."

"But isn't bravery supposed to be for a noble cause?"

"Sure," Sherlock said, "but if you can do it for pointless things like this, a person like you with strong moral principle would be even more likely to do it for another person. It's not in question whether or not you're the type of person that helps others, since we already know that. That's one of the things about you that's very Hufflepuff. The question here is your nerve. Thus why I'm mostly leaving morals out of these trials."

John had to admit that Sherlock's logic was sound. He still wasn't convinced any of this made him a Gryffindor, but at this point he kind of enjoyed getting into trouble, honestly, so he didn't mind Sherlock's tests. Not completely, at least.

"So think of a way to administer this to Mycroft," said Sherlock. "By tomorrow morning," he added, and then he walked out of the room.

"Tomorrow _morning_?" John asked, but Sherlock was already gone.

Damn. So much for sleeping tonight.

* * *

Saturday morning, John was ready to go on with his plan with Mycroft. He wasn't sure if it would actually work, but he didn't know what else to do.

Because John's plan was to sit at breakfast with a goblet laced with the Enamouring Infusion across from him and then talk about Mycroft with someone. John noticed that when either Holmes was brought up in conversation, but especially Mycroft himself, the older brother would suddenly appear. If Mycroft just came up to him without invitation, how could he think John had the time to premeditate giving him a potion? And there was the fact that Sherlock and Mycroft were in one way easy to trick: They underestimated the intelligence of everyone around them. Mycroft would never think that John was clever enough to drug him.

But there was also the possibility that Mycroft might come over, address that John was speaking about him, and then walk away without drinking anything. John had an idea for that too. He just had to speak about something Mycroft was interested in. Then he'd stay and pour himself a drink, right? He hoped so…

John had to admit, he loved Sherlock's idea. John could've been assigned to give someone else a more boring potion, but this was bound to be hilarious. Especially after reading the small print under the main description of the draft, which said, "Side effects include impulsive, erratic, and uncharacteristic behaviour, and on rare occasions fits of dancing, singing, and giggling. Depending on the will of the person and the intensity of the feelings that are being magnified, the draft can last anywhere between ten minutes and several hours. Taker of the potion need only drink a miniscule amount to have the full effect and drinking extra will not increase or lengthen effects. Should begin to work within five minutes."

Impulsive, erratic, and uncharacteristic behaviour in Mycroft was bound to be hilarious. Would he recite a sonnet? Perform a ritualistic mating dance? And the look on Greg's face was bound to be priceless too. John felt like this was partially revenge for how Greg kept nagging him about his feelings for Sherlock.

_Alleged_ feelings, of course.

Except now even he knew he was in denial.

But he put that thought aside as he walked into the Great Hall at seven. On a Saturday, very few people woke up that early, so he hoped the Great Hall would be mostly empty, and he was right. Problem was, one of the few people that was there was McGonagall, and she had the eyes of a hawk. He'd have to be very careful.

John waited for McGonagall to distract herself with something, but ten minutes later, she was still looking around keenly.

So he got an idea. Hagrid was next to her, who often was clumsy. So he flicked his wand at Hagrid's left hand, which was wielding a glass.

And just as he wanted, the glass' contents spilled out onto McGonagall.

"Rubeus!" she screeched, standing up and looking down at her soiled robes.

"Oh, Minerva, I'm so sorry! I dint mean ta do that!"

While she wiped herself off crossly, he grabbed the goblet across from him and poured just the tiniest amount into the bottom. Hopefully Mycroft didn't look before he poured.

Then John got out his homework and began to work on it, since there probably wouldn't be anyone in here for a while.

John was done with his Defense Against the Dark Arts homework and was starting an Arithmancy essay when someone sat next to him.

"Mornin'," said Greg, and John couldn't keep from smiling evilly, because this was _perfect_. If Greg was right there when Mycroft drank the potion…

Luckily, he made the face at his parchment and was able to look up with a normal, 'nice to see you, friend' sort of smile.

"You're up earlier than usual," said Greg, pouring himself some corn flakes. "Swamped with homework?"

"Yeah," John said. It was actually kind of true. He was so busy playing Sherlock's games that he was falling behind.

"That's what you get for taking Arithmancy," Greg teased.

"Oh, shut up," John muttered.

"Oh, and… sorry about the other day," he added. "We haven't really spoken much since, and I just hoped your weren't angry with me."

"No, I…" John murmured, "I get it. You're trying to help. I just… am not sure what I want to do about that situation yet. It makes me nervous to think about it."

"I get that. Me too," Greg admitted.

Good. A transition where John could smoothly bring up Mycroft.

"Have you had breakfast together since that first time?"

"No. But he's supposed to meet me this morning, actually."

John did his best to look irritated. "Oh, so now I'm going to have to eat with him too?"

"Oh, shut it, I eat with Sherlock."

"You liked Sherlock once you got to know him, admit it."

"Okay, yeah," Greg agreed. "And you'd probably like Mycroft if you got to know him too."

"Are you sure about that? You're an unheard of case, Gregory."

John again had to try really hard not to smile. There Mycroft was, appearing across the table from them just the way John planned. He thought it would take longer for him to show up.

"How do you _do_ that?" John accused.

"It's a gift," Mycroft replied. "Am I unwelcome?" he added to John.

He looked over to Greg, who glared at him, and John put in just the right amount of hesitation. "No, come on, take a seat," John muttered.

Mycroft sat at the place setting with the potion in the goblet. It was like the universe wanted John to succeed.

"I'm an unheard of case?" asked Greg.

"Oh, quite. Do you imagine I have a great deal of friends, Gregory?"

"Well a lot of people talk to you. I see it all the time."

"Because they know I have money and connections," Mycroft replied. "Liking me for my personality is a new one."

"Wonder why," John muttered, and Greg elbowed him.

"Alright, sorry, sorry," said John. "I'll be good. But aren't you going to eat?" he added to Mycroft, who hadn't even looked down to the food yet.

"I'm not hungry," said Mycroft, glancing at the food for the first time, but then he made a strained face and looked away again. His stomach growled loudly.

"You aren't, are you?" asked John pointedly.

Mycroft sighed. "I… Well, I'm trying to eat healthy. I have wholesome foods sent in by owl post."

"But you're skinny," said John.

"I didn't used to be. Admittedly… I love food. Especially cake, which Hogwarts has an alarming amount of."

"True. But really, is a glass of pumpkin juice going to kill you?" John asked, holding up the pitcher. Mycroft was looking at it longingly.

And he sighed again. "Oh, fine, give it to me," he snapped, and he poured the drink into the right goblet. He then looked to Greg without drinking any, and John almost groaned.

"Should I leave you two alone?" asked John dryly.

As neither of them answered, he stood and started to pack and walk out of the hall slowly, doing it all while watching Mycroft.

He got out of the hall and stood beside the door, peeping at them.

Then he noticed Sherlock was standing on the other side of the door, doing the same thing.

"The potion's in the glass in front of him. He's just got to drink some."

"Impressive," said Sherlock. "And that move with Hagrid's goblet was inspired."

John grinned. "I know, right?"

The two of them were talking, and Greg was eating, and even offering things to Mycroft.

Then, as both John and Sherlock watched from their hiding place, Mycroft brought his glass to his lips and took a sip.

A sip was all it took.

* * *

"So you want to work at the Ministry?" asked Greg.

"I would prefer to become Minister of Magic," said Mycroft. "But if that doesn't happen, Head of Magical Law Enforcement will do."

"Isn't that where Hermione Granger works now?"

"She's not the head," said Mycroft. "She's…"

Mycroft, quite unlike usual, actually stopped in the middle of his sentence. He was looking at a spot on the table with eyes glazed for a moment, but then looked up to Greg again with a strange smile on his face.

"We're talking about NEWTs when we could be talking about us," said Mycroft. "How silly."

"Us?" asked Greg apprehensively.

"Yes, _us_!" cried Mycroft, standing up. Many people in the Great Hall went quiet and looked at Mycroft. "We should go somewhere!" he said. "Take a walk, or a swim, or dance in the moonlight!" He started twirling around with his arms up, like he was dancing with an invisible partner.

"Erm… Mycroft, are you feeling okay?"

"Oh, Gregory, I feel fantastic. My head has never been this _clear_! Always full of plots and things… what a waste of space!" He laughed heartily, and now people were really looking. Unlike Sherlock, who people mostly didn't pay attention to, everyone knew Mycroft. And they knew he was a stoic person, to say in the gentlest of terms. Most people would be more likely to say 'a real stand-offish prat'. This behaviour was, to say the least, strange. "What is wrong with me, I haven't even made things official yet!" Mycroft stepped up onto the table, knocking over several things while he was at it.

"Mycroft, are you high?" asked Greg seriously.

"Mr Holmes!" cried McGonagall. "You get down this instant!"

"I apologise, Minerva, but I can't! I'm in love!" he called to her.

Greg looked up at him with his mouth wide open.

"Well then be in love somewhere other than on the table, Holmes," said McGonagall dangerously.

Mycroft heaved a loud sigh and got down. "Gregory, this is not the proper venue for us to do this, is it? Come on, we'll go somewhere else."

Mycroft began to walk—well, more like dance, actually—out of the hall and Greg didn't know what to do… so he got up and followed him. People were looking at him in shock, humour, with congratulatory grins…

Greg was so humiliated he felt he was going to be sick, but his head was also reeling. _Love_? He hadn't said _love_, had he? But something was obviously wrong. He was under the influence of… something.

"Myc, I think you've been drugged. Or someone's given you a potion or something."

"Quite possible!" agreed Mycroft jovially, "but I don't care!" He took Greg's hand. They were now standing in the entrance hall, where there were people again stopping to gape. And then Mycroft got down on his knees in front of Greg.

"Erm, I'm not quite ready to get married yet," said Greg, panicking slightly.

"No, of course not," Mycroft said, standing again. "I only want to make this grandiose! Would it be better if I hung from the chandelier? Ran around in circles? I probably should've brought chocolates, shouldn't I? Or cake. God, I love cake so much. I haven't had it in ages. Let's get some cake, Gregory."

Greg was still staring at him with his mouth hanging open. He couldn't seem to close it.

Mycroft hardly seemed to notice Greg's surprise.

"Oh, I'll just do it right here, right now. Gregory, if you won't be mine, I will surely perish."

"Erm… be your—"

"Partner. Boyfriend. Lover. Beau. Companion. Significant oth—"

"Are you… asking me out?"

"Well, yes, I think I am. Probably I am. Am I? Do you think I am? I'd like to go out with you. I've liked you for a long while. Actually, even before this year I kind of stared at you, admittedly. You're quite attractive. Wow, I shouldn't have said that. Or any of this. But I don't even care, you know?!" Mycroft was positively bouncing.

Greg didn't know whether to be thrilled to hear all this or mortified. He was somewhere in between. "Myc, I'm pretty sure you've got a potion in you, which means you don't mean any of this."

"It doesn't mean anything of the sort!" Mycroft exclaimed. "Whether this is a potion's work or not, I feel great, and you look great, so we should just make this thing official already."

"But if you don't actually like me—"

"But I do like you, stupid!" said Mycroft. "I asked you to breakfast, didn't I? I never ask anyone to meals. I've just been afraid to admit how I was feeling, but I'm not afraid at all anymore! This isn't even hard! I think that—"

And then Mycroft stopped again, standing board straight, staring into space again.

Greg could infer what would happen now. Right before he started acting crazy, he did the same thing. Which meant now…

Mycroft looked up to Greg with probably almost the same face Greg was making, except his mouth was closed.

"I… I don't know what just happened," said Mycroft. "Please… forgive all that behaviour."

"Oh, yeah, okay, I'll just forget you said any of it," Greg said, feeling a little down as he said it. He knew it was all fake.

"No, don't forget what I said," said Mycroft after a moment. "I… well, it was true. Mostly. I was… a little overly passionate, but… I do like you. And I would like to maybe go on a… a date or something."

Greg had never seen Mycroft nervous, and it was kind of endearing.

"Erm… yeah, sure, okay."

"Want to… take that walk I was talking about?" asked Mycroft apprehensively.

"Sure," Greg said with a smile, and the two of them made to go out onto the grounds.

"That had to have been the work of a potion though," said Mycroft. "But nobody gave me anything."

"Maybe someone gave you something yesterday and it took some time to activate?"

"Could be," Mycroft mused, and the two of them walked silently for a long time before going to sit under a tree on the grounds.

"I apologise for embarrassing you," Mycroft said. "I was not in my right mind."

"I know," said Greg. "Plus… it was kind of worth it." On complete impulse, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's cheek. Mycroft looked over with wide eyes, nervous and surprised and Greg smiled at the look on his face.

Then the two of them just sat talking for hours, hand in hand under the tree.


	14. Chapter 14: The Icy Broom

Mycroft and Greg were the talk of the school for about three days before people got over the shock of it. Ever since Mycroft had his weird outburst—yeah, who knew what caused _that_?—the two of them were rarely seen apart.

"He's gay? He's the Head Boy!" was one of the main things heard around the castle. Though John wasn't sure what him being Head Boy and him being gay had to do with each other. Or bi, or whatever, since he'd dated girls before.

John, for all intents and purposes, was avoiding Greg. Well, not avoiding, really. He didn't have a problem being around him. He was happy for him. He was glad he was getting to play in the Quidditch game on Saturday, even if that meant Yancey was still out… But John remembered clearly what he had said to Greg only a few days prior.

_The moment you and Mycroft go public, I'll think about talking to Sherlock. Sound fair?_

Well, they'd gone public. And that meant that Greg was just waiting for the payout. Every time he was alone with Greg, he'd look like he was about to say something about Sherlock, and John would think of a reason to leave the area. Even with John practising with him extra after training sessions, John made sure that they never actually talked.

So after Mycroft and Greg stopped being a big deal, everyone started buzzing about two things: Halloween was on Thursday and the first Quidditch match, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, was on Saturday.

The first occasion, Halloween, had been mostly uneventful. They had the big feast, and John, Sherlock, Greg, Mycroft, Molly, and Judy all sat together. John had hardly talked to Molly lately. She'd been quiet and pensive for weeks now, disappearing suddenly in the middle of conversations to run off to the library. He kept meaning to ask her if something was wrong, but never got around to it.

So after Halloween night, the only thing left for people to be excited about was the Quidditch match.

And really, putting the two events so close together was stupid. They should've scheduled the match for the next week, even if the match was traditionally held on the first Saturday of November. Because on Friday, everyone was sleep deprived from going to bed late because of all the Halloween sweets they devoured the night before and they wouldn't shut up about the match at the same time. The professors were all in rotten moods because of it, even the ones that were traditionally nice. John could almost believe Sherlock's theory about Professor Moriarty, who was particularly harsh that day when anyone messed up.

John woke Saturday morning feeling the normal amount of nerves that came with a match, but nothing more. Slytherin wasn't that great this year, especially considering their captain and Seeker had graduated. But at the same time, Gryffindor's own Seeker was new this year, as the old one decided not to try out this year—and almost got zapped by McGonagall for it, actually, until he explained that he wanted to focus on his NEWTs—and they were using their reserve Keeper, Greg. So John wasn't sure who'd be better, actually.

All of John's friends had gotten up early to support him. Even Molly and Judy, who were Hufflepuffs. In this game, they both preferred Gryffindor win over Slytherin, of course. Greg looked like he was going to throw up a bit, but Mycroft tried to comfort him as best as he could with his personality that made it nearly impossible to comfort someone.

Mike Stamford, Gryffindor's other Beater, came and sat by John and his friends that morning. They didn't talk much outside of practises and games. Not because they didn't like each other, but they just never ran in the same crowd, John supposed.

John was surprised, then, when Mike sat down and greeted Sherlock pleasantly, and Sherlock nodded in a way that showed they knew each other.

"I'm not actually that surprised you two became mates," said Stamford. "You've always been different from other people."

John didn't know what to say to that, but was kind of grateful to hear it. He was tired of people telling him he was mad for being friends with Sherlock, so it was nice to hear someone say that their friendship made sense.

They all bad-talked the other team and tried to make Greg feel a bit better as they ate their breakfast. Slytherins walked in with their meanest glares, but John was used to that. Greg was intimidated by it, immediately turning green again, but both Stamford and Mike told him not to worry about it too much, that they did that to everyone and that Greg shouldn't fall for it.

Sally and Anderson, as usual, were not talking today. They both emphatically supported their own House's team, and if they talked on a Quidditch day, they'd murder each other. Because of this, she was forced to sit with all of them, even though she was still on strike from her friendship with John because Sherlock was in his life so much.

That morning, Sherlock seemed extra-pensive. He didn't say a word at breakfast. Not that this was odd or anything, as sometimes Sherlock went silent for days and John didn't know why, but this particular morning, he would've had several chances to make other people feel stupid, and Sherlock rarely skipped a chance to do that.

After breakfast, when he got a half a second alone with Sherlock, he quickly asked, "So what are you thinking about?"

John thought he'd ignore him, for a moment, but then he said, "Have you noticed how Molly has been acting of late?"

John was puzzled by the comment. "Well… yeah… I didn't think you paid an ounce of attention to Molly."

"Something's happened to her. Something she doesn't want to tell anyone."

"Like what?"

"I don't know." Then he shook his head and looked over to John. "Don't worry about it. Think about the match. You nervous?"

"A bit."

"You'll do fine."

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Are you actually giving me words of encouragement right now?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No. It's just not like you. Will you be watching?" he added.

"Of course. I have to gauge your courage some more through watching you at Quidditch."

"Or you just like me and are trying to be supportive."

"One of the two," agreed Sherlock. "Good luck, John."

And then John was whisked away by the rest of the team.

* * *

The score was twenty to ten for Gryffindor. Slytherin was on point today, but Greg was doing a great job too. They'd tried for four goals already, and Greg had blocked three of them. His green look of illness had gone away by now and he just looked like he was having a great time. Apparently, the Quidditch he played when he was little with his older brothers and father was paying off.

One of the Slytherin Beaters, however, was playing dirty. That was no different than usual though. Even though Slytherin wasn't all bad, somehow there was always one arsehole that tried to hurt everyone. John had almost been hit himself several times. With Beaters though, it was hard to give any penalties for that kind of play, because their position on the team was already pretty violent in the first place.

So far, the Seekers had been circling aimlessly above everyone, not yet bolting away at the sight of the Snitch. John was kind of glad for that, honestly. Sure, he liked to win, but playing Quidditch for him was because he liked the game, so when the Seeker caught the Snitch in the first ten minutes, even if it was for his team, it was no fun. Actually, last year they'd won a game in four minutes because their Seeker got lucky and caught the Snitch that fast. John had been the only one that was disappointed rather than impressed.

John was paying attention to the Quaffle when suddenly, he felt like his broom had gotten slippery. His hands slid right off and the top of his body fell forward so he was hanging on his broom with his arms dangling beneath him. Everyone in the crowd gasped, but then sounded relieved again at the fact that he didn't fall off.

Wow, strange. It was cold outside, sure, but cold enough for his broom to freeze or something? He wasn't sure why his hands had slipped like that.

"John, you okay?" asked someone from his left.

"Yeah, fine," he replied quickly, going to sit up again. But when he tried to grab his broom, his hands again slid off, and this time he lost his balance and had to squeeze his legs together hard to stay on his broom.

"John?" someone yelled. This time he knew it was Greg.

John considered that he should probably fly lower as he tried to get himself situated in case he fell in the process…

But right around the time he thought that was when he lost his grip for good and fell off the broom.

* * *

John awoke groggily in a bright room with too many faces crowded around him. There was the Quidditch team, and there was Molly and Judy and Sally and even Anderson. John noticed that Sherlock wasn't one of the faces he could see and his stomach twisted in disappointment.

But then he wondered why all these people were here at all.

That is, until he remembered what had happened.

"I fell off my broom," he said.

Greg, who was the one in front of the rest of the Quidditch team, nodded. "It was really strange. It was like you couldn't get a proper hold on the handle."

"Were your palms sweaty or something?" Stamford asked.

"Were you nervous?" asked someone else.

"I… I dunno what happened. My broom got all slippery and then I fell… and now I'm here."

"You broke a few bones, but Pomfrey fixed those up really fast," said Greg. "It's just that you hit your head, so you've been out cold for a few hours. You're fine, though. No permanent damage or anything."

"Oh…" John muttered. "But what about the match?"

Then they all grinned. "We let in Michaels, from reserve, and we won. Taylor luckily got the Snitch pretty quickly. Then we all came here."

"Well I'm glad we still won," said John, "even though I'm apparently an idiot who can't fly."

"Oh, come off it," said Greg. "It could happen to anyone."

"You did good, then?" John asked Greg.

Greg grinned. "Only let in that one goal."

"He was brilliant," agreed Stamford.

People only stayed for a bit longer, because then Madam Pomfrey came in saying it was too many visitors and most of the team left, leaving only John's closer friends with him. But then they left too, and the only person who stayed was Greg. John would think he was just staying to be nice, but Mycroft left too, and he would only do that if Greg asked him to leave.

Of course. He was going to stay for an ambush, since John couldn't walk away this time.

He figured he might as well ask the question he'd been wanting to ever since he woke up.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked.

Greg smiled again, which John didn't expect. "Got himself in trouble with Hooch."

"What?" asked John.

"When you fell of your broom, he kind of panicked. He ran out of the stands and went onto the pitch. Hooch told him to get off or he'd get in trouble, but he kept trying to get to you. She assigned him to polish all the sets of equipment as punishment, but I'm sure he's almost done by now."

John felt a little better knowing that Sherlock wasn't there for a good reason. Well, it was stupid of him to get in trouble in the first place, but he was doing it for John's sake, so he _was_ a bit flattered by it.

"So now's the part where you tell me to talk to Sherlock?" asked John resignedly.

"Pretty much, yeah."

"But Greg… he's my best friend. What if I say how I feel and he doesn't feel the same and it ruins everything?"

"Mycroft's positive he likes you too," said Greg.

"Okay, even if he _does_ like me then, does Sherlock seem like the type that wants a relationship? What if he's ignoring how he feels on purpose and talking to him about it just makes him upset?"

"You'll never know until you try, John."

John sighed. "Fine. I said that when you and Mycroft got together, I'll think about talking to Sherlock. And I really will think about it… I just haven't decided if I want to risk it yet."

Greg sighed. "Alright, fair enough, I suppose. Well, I've got loads of Defense and Potions to do," he added. "I'm glad you're okay."

He got up and John was left mostly alone, other than the fact that Yancey was sleeping in a bed across the room from him, his arms useless noodles at his sides.

Then the doors came open dramatically and Sherlock came in, almost running. He stopped in front of John's bed, his face all hard lines and concern.

"Erm… I'm alive," said John.

Sherlock sat down beside the bed. "I'd have been here earlier, only that cursed Hooch—"

"You had to stay late to clean, I know. It's okay."

"I honestly never thought I could be so worried."

Sherlock, _worried?_ Wow. John never thought he'd see the day. He wasn't in the mood to tease though. "Sherlock, it's alright. I'm fine. People get hurt in Quidditch all the time."

"But that wasn't an ordinary fall, John, you must know that."

"What?" John asked blankly.

"God, you're so stupid sometimes. John, what happened before you fell?"

"Well… my broom felt slippery. Like I couldn't keep a grip on it no matter how hard I tried."

"Exactly."

John still didn't get it.

Sherlock groaned. "Come, _think_ John. That doesn't just happen to people."

"So you're saying…"

"I'm saying someone cursed you. They wanted you to fall and make it look like an accident."

"But… you can't be serious."

"Deadly," Sherlock replied.

"You think… someone's out to hurt me?"

"Most definitely," Sherlock replied.

"But… they must've known that I wasn't going to die. Pomfrey heals broken bones…"

"Unless you had died on impact. And that was a nasty fall. I thought for a moment… that you had."

"You thought I was dead?" No wonder he'd tried to run out onto the pitch.

"For a manic moment, yes," said Sherlock.

"Well… sorry I scared you. But I'm okay."

"But we need to know who's out to get you, John."

"Sherlock, it could've just been some Slytherin that wanted to win the match. Don't think too hard on it."

Sherlock's jaw set in his silence, showing he'd stop talking about it, but that he was still madly thinking about it.

John was kept in the hospital wing overnight, just to make sure his head was okay, and Sherlock sat at his bedside all night as he slept and was still there in the morning when he got let out.

"You didn't have to stay," said John.

"Yes I did," Sherlock replied, and John didn't ask what he meant by that.


	15. Adventure 6: The Chamber of Secrets

John got another midnight message from Sherlock saying to meet at the Room of Requirement, and Sherlock wasted no time in telling him what they were doing.

"We're going to the Chamber of Secrets."

John gaped at him. "Wait. You know where the Chamber of Secrets entrance is?"

"Oh, I found it ages ago."

"If you know where the Chamber of fucking Secrets is, how did it take you so long to find the Room of Requirement?"

"Until quite recently, I thought it was just a legend students told for fun. Then I was informed at the beginning of this school year that it is, in fact, an actual location, and that's when I started to look for areas where a door could fit."

John nodded. "But how did you find the Chamber of Secrets?" asked John. "Were you looking for it, did you stumble upon it…"

"I was a first year and my very first goal when I got here was to find the Chamber. All that is openly told about it is the fact that it was built by Slytherin, that it can be opened by the Heir of Slytherin, and that a Basilisk hides inside and was used to kill people throughout the school the two times it was released. I knew that the only way for something huge like that to be travelling through the school unseen was for it to be going in the wall or something. Then I narrowed that down to being inside the pipes. Then I could only figure the entrance to said place would be somewhere with a lot of pipes. Considering the fact that it isn't stumbled upon by students, it's likely a disused lavatory. There are only three in the school, on the first floor, on the sixth floor, and on the seventh. Then I remembered that the first death that took place that was later found to be the Basilisk was in the first floor girls' toilet, and once I found that out, it took me ten minutes to find the actual door, even with that wretched ghost girl harassing me. Then I just had to speak Parseltongue to open the door and—"

"Wait. You're a Parselmouth?"

"I thought you knew that," Sherlock said passively.

"I think I'd remember you telling me that, Sherlock."

"Well I told you I'm a descendant of Slytherin."

"Not every descendant of Slytherin is a Parselmouth!"

"True," Sherlock said.

John knew it was silly to look at Sherlock differently now, but he'd heard enough times that being a Parselmouth was a sign of a Dark Wizard… Harry Potter was the only exception, and supposedly he couldn't speak it anymore since he killed Voldemort.

"Do you think I'm a Dark Wizard now?" Sherlock asked blandly.

Now that he said it like that, it did sound a little ridiculous. "Well, n—"

"And that I killed Sabrina Morgan too, probably."

"No," John said more firmly. "I don't think that." And he really did mean it. "You've always been different from other people. That doesn't make you a Dark Wizard. You're just… brilliant."

Sherlock gave the half a smile that he did when he was flattered. "So are you ready to go?"

"Sure," John said, standing up.

Sherlock's eyebrow went up. "You aren't going to complain about how insane this is?" asked Sherlock.

John shrugged. "At this point, I'm not even surprised by the ideas you cook up anymore. Plus, how many people get the chance to see the Chamber of bloody Secrets?"

"Good. Then let's go."

* * *

John had been being honest when he told Sherlock he was more excited for this adventure than he had been some of the other ones. But the reason this trip out in the middle of the night was much more frightening than others, however, was because the girls' toilet the entrance was in was on the first floor, and anything below the fifth floor was much more heavily watched by Mrs Norris and Filch. Sherlock said this was because students that were going to sneak out were likely to either be trying to leave the grounds or sneaking into the kitchen or something like that, which would lead them to the ground floor. So the first floor was the place where he mostly patrolled, and that was exactly where they were going.

Because of this, Sherlock had taken extra precautions. He made an invisibility potion, but it still wouldn't be enough to hide from the cat, since the description of the potion said that it did not work on animals. It also mentioned that your body will work through the potion faster if you're under too much stress. So John was really nervous, especially when he started walking down the stairs from the fifth floor to the fourth. For all he knew, he was so stressed he was already turning visible.

Then something whizzed past their heads, and John only just barely kept himself from yelling out. He grabbed at the first thing he could feel with his hand and squeezed hard.

"It's only Peeves," Sherlock breathed to John. John looked up and saw a small man floating above them, wearing bright clothes and smiling madly. It seemed the Invisibility Potion worked on him, since he wasn't actually looking at them, but he was definitely looking around the area, as if he sensed them.

"Wee kiddies out of beddie, are there?" asked Peeves to the air loudly. "I haven't caught a kiddie out of beddie since Potty himself left!" Then he started giggling madly. "Where are you, kiddies?"

"OI! YOU!" came a bark of a yell, and John flattened himself into Sherlock, squeezing harder on the thing that was in his hand… which he realised then was actually Sherlock's hand, but he couldn't move enough to let go. He was panicking. God, somehow, Filch had seen them. Now he was going to get expelled. He was— "You're going to wake up the whole bloody castle!"

Oh, he'd seen _Peeves_, not them. John was just the slightest bit relieved, but Filch was still barely a metre away.

"Only trying to help you with your job, _sir_!" said Peeves with a salute. "Kiddies out of beddie!"

"Yeah, just like there were last night and the night before!" growled Filch.

"This time there really is!"

"I'm going to get you, you pesky poltergeist!" Filch howled, and then he ran after Peeves, who flew in the direction of the higher floors.

"Come on," Sherlock hissed. "This is perfect timing. Let's go!"

John started to walk with Sherlock, but mostly because his hand was still clamped onto Sherlock's, so he was forced to move when he did. They nearly ran down the steps, and then they saw the door to the girls' toilets and went in quickly, but Sherlock made sure not to slam the door in his haste.

"You're becoming visible again," said Sherlock.

John was breathing hard. He rested his head against Sherlock's chest, since it was the closest thing to him. It was strange to be against something he couldn't see, so he shut his eyes, since when he wasn't looking, Sherlock felt as solidly there as he usually did. "God, I thought he saw us," he breathed.

"But he didn't," Sherlock said. "So just breathe."

John was a little surprised that Sherlock wasn't rushing John to calm down or pushing him away or making him let go of his hand.

But John calmed himself down after another thirty seconds. "Should I take more of the potion?" asked John as he stepped away from Sherlock.

"No, we'll need it to get back up to the higher floors again. We don't need to be invisible in the Chamber."

"Right," said John. Then he looked down at their hands, which were still clasped together. He'd completely forgotten, like their hands being together was so natural to him that he hardly felt it. "Oh, sorry," he said as he let go.

"No… erm… it's fine," said Sherlock, and John wished he could see Sherlock's face, because he sounded so different from usual. Apprehensive. Confused. And then the hand was in John's again. John didn't have enough time to ask what he was doing before he said, "You can't see me. You'll lose me if we aren't touching."

"Oh, right," said John, but now that he wasn't freaking out, he could clearly feel the tingling in his palm the same way it had the second day he met Sherlock, except this time he understood what it meant. He imagined Sherlock was staring him in the eyes intensely, but he couldn't see him, so he didn't know.

"Must you two have your loving moment in my lavatory? Or are you here for the Chamber?"

John looked around, jumping hard. Who the hell was that?

"Oh," Sherlock said. "I forgot to warn you. Part of this adventure is getting past Myrtle."

"Wait, who?"

"ME!" howled the girl's voice again, and a girl appeared from out of one of the stalls, her arms crossed. She was pearly and translucent, which told John immediately that she was a ghost. "I'm never letting anyone go into that Chamber again! Nobody ever comes here to see _me_, they're always here to kiss or to ask for a stupid journal, or to go to that STINKING CHAMBER OF STINKING SECRETS! Even Harry."

"Harry… you mean Harry Potter?" asked John.

"Of course. We were in love, you know. He just didn't tell people about it."

"Isn't he married now?"

She glared at him. "What are you doing in here?" she snapped. "Come to throw things at me? Laugh at me?"

"No, of course not," said John. "Actually… I came to meet you."

She looked at him with wide eyes. "To meet _me_?"

"Oh, yeah," John replied. "Harry Potter talks about you to the Daily Prophet and your forbidden love with him."

She smiled, eyes madly wide. "Really?"

"Sure does. Or, well, he _did_. And then he got married and that makes you single, right?"

A sheepish grin. "I guess so."

"Your… your hair is just so pretty. How do you keep it so nice?"

"Oh, it just shines naturally. You know, being pearlescent does that."

"Wow, it's just really nice." John paused. "But, Myrtle—can I call you Myrtle?"

She nodded shyly.

"Right. So my friend and I, we've got to go into this Chamber." She frowned. "I know it's a hassle, it's just because we're doing… a project on it."

"A project?"

"Yes. A project on what the Chamber is. And we figure that the best way to learn about it is to go inside, rather than reading about it in books. So… do you think we could just go in for a little while?"

"Well… okay," she agreed. "What's your name?"

"John," he replied.

"John," she said with a grin. "Good. See you soon, John."

And then she dived into a toilet.

"Did I just get into a relationship with a ghost?" asked John.

"Possibly," the still invisible Sherlock replied.

_"Great…_ well, into the Chamber then?"

Instead of replying, he dragged him by the hand that was still in his and took him over to the set of sinks, going up to one in particular. Then a hissing noise came from the place that must have been Sherlock, but it in no way sounded like his voice. He knew that Parseltongue was the language of snakes, but he'd never known quite how much like a snake Sherlock would sound when he spoke it. Chills went up and down his spine several times and he shivered as the set of sinks opened for them to walk inside.

Well, 'walk' as in slide, since there was a chute they had to go down to get inside. Then they found themselves in a dark corridor.

"_Lumos_," said John before Sherlock could, and he looked over to where Sherlock was. John could just barely see that he was there now, like he was a ghost like Myrtle, except with colour. "You're nearly visible," John said.

"Yes, I made a potion that doesn't last very long because it takes several months to brew one that lasts the whole hour, so this one only lasts fifteen minutes."

"Except if you panic like me."

"Exactly," replied Sherlock. "Let's go."

They walked down the hallway and John didn't look down after the first time he stepped on something that made a gross crunching noise.

"That was a bone, wasn't it?" asked John.

"Most likely," Sherlock replied.

John considered for the first time that this was a really bad idea.

As usual, Sherlock guessed what he was thinking. "The Basilisk that put those bones there is long dead, John."

"I know," John replied. They continued to walk, and the dripping from the walls didn't help John's nerves. At one point they had to climb over a nearly knee-high pile of rocks.

"This used to be up to the ceiling," Sherlock said. "See the marks on the wall? There was a cave in. But someone used a spell to move the rocks out of the way, most likely 'Confringo'."

"You can tell that just by looking?"

"Of course," replied Sherlock. "See, here on the w—"

"Don't explain. I won't know what you mean."

"Fine," Sherlock said, and they continued to walk until they reached a door with snakes weaving on it. "I feel like they should've made the password for these doors more difficult than 'open'. Anyone could get in."

"If they're a Parselmouth. And first they have to find the Chamber. I don't think many people are getting in."

Sherlock shrugged, and then hissed to the door, causing John to shiver again.

They were admitted into a dark chamber, flooded with an odd greenish light, kind of like fog. The ground and walls were moist, and there were pillars on either side that were crawling with stone snakes. Even though they were fake, and they didn't move, John got the weird feeling that they were all staring at him. Then, at the end of the cavern, there was a huge skeleton, obviously that of the long-dead Basilisk.

"Sherlock, I have to say, out of all the things you've made me do, this is the scariest."

"I told you it'd get more intense with each trial," said Sherlock.

They started walking up the pathway and got closer to the corpse of the snake…

But then they saw something else… something that looked oddly like another dead thing.

"Sherlock," John breathed. "Is that—"

"Human bones all in a pile over there? Yes, I was thinking that too."

The other bones in the hallway had been scattered, like they would be if an animal ravaged them. But these… they were all put together the way they were supposed to be, like a body was put down here and left to rot… maybe even after the death of the Basilisk.

They approached and, indeed, it was the skeleton of a smallish person. Sherlock bent down and looked at it.

"John, this body hasn't been dead more than a few years."

"What?"

"Yes, no more than five, but probably less. The low temperature down here has slowed the decaying process, I'm sure, but this isn't old enough to have been killed by that snake, which has been dead for far over a decade."

"Then who killed this person?"

Sherlock didn't reply, just kept looking at the body. But then he picked something up off of the ground from by her. It shined in the minimal light coming from John's wand.

"That's—"

"A prefect's badge," said Sherlock. "And who's died in the past five years that was relatively short and a prefect?"

"You don't mean that—"

"That this is Sabrina Morgan? I'm nearly sure of it."

"But she didn't die down here. She died on the fourth floor."

"Whoever killed her brought her body down here after all the investigating was said and done. Maybe as a sort of sacrifice to Slytherin, maybe just to hide the body so nobody could look any deeper into how she died."

"But who could've gotten away with taking a body like that?"

Sherlock looked to John meaningfully. "A professor, maybe?"

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, so to you this only proves Professor Moriarty killed her?"

"Most definitely," Sherlock said.

John didn't bother to argue. He'd never convince Sherlock he was wrong about the professor. He had as little proof that he was good as Sherlock did that he was bad—but honestly, he was a _professor_. Surely professors earned enough benefit of the doubt that if there was no proof they were good or bad that people would assume they were good.

John kept looking down at the pile of bones that was once a girl he saw around school.

"Sherlock, can we go? We've seen the Chamber."

"Yes, yes alright. But let me just grab a few fangs."

"Out of the Basilisk?"

"Yes. The venom can be useful."

"For killing people?"

"For various potions, John. Come on, I thought you already said you don't think I'm a Dark Wizard."

"I don't… but you're taking this dead body rather calmly."

"It's not the first time I've seen one, remember?"

That made John shut up again. He stayed quiet as they left the Chamber and the girls' toilet—which was mercifully empty of anyone, ghost or otherwise—and got back up to the seventh floor without a hitch.

They intended to just stop by the Room of Requirement in order to drop off the fangs, and then they were both going to go back to bed. They were both completely visible again, but neither of them had a very far walk, so they weren't too worried.

Sherlock was heading for the door when John said, "Wait, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned. "Yes?" he asked, concern etched on his face from the tone of John's voice.

"It's just… I'm feeling a little shaken. From seeing Sabrina, I mean."

"That's not surprising, John. Most people would."

"Not very Gryffindor of me."

He rolled his eyes. "You're sixteen years old and you saw the bones of a murdered girl that you knew. I think the average teenager might have screamed and fainted."

John shrugged. "Okay then, I guess."

But Sherlock didn't start walking. After a moment, he sighed. "Okay, come on, John."

"Come on what? Another adventure already?"

Sherlock smirked and walked back over to John. "No, you're going to stay here tonight."

"I am?"

Sherlock took John's hand again and led them both to the chairs by the fire… except today, there was only one chair. What the hell? There were always two, but now there was just the one. Still nearly big enough for two people with a little squeeze, but it was just strange. One of them—Sherlock, in this case, since he opened the door—must've been thinking something that made the room think they only needed one chair.

If Sherlock noticed the difference, he said nothing. He just sat, gesturing for John to sit too.

"What, do you think I need to be babysat?"

"I think that, like you said, you're shaken. And we'd both appreciate the company."

"Both?"

Sherlock sighed. "Whether you believe me about Moriarty or not, this proves Sabrina was murdered, or nobody would hide the body. Which could very well mean someone is going after Muggleborns… and that means you, John. Especially considering the incident on the Quidditch pitch a few days ago… So yes, I would like to stay with you."

John was more flattered than he wanted to admit aloud. "What, are you going to stay with me all the time now?" he asked to mask it.

"No… but as often as I can."

John sighed and sat in the chair with him, automatically feeling an odd sense of comfort. He leaned into Sherlock without thinking about it, and was too comfortable to awkwardly move away.

"Sherlock…" John muttered. "I just wondered…"

"Yes, John?"

John sighed. "Nothing," he replied, losing his nerve. He just snuggled closer into Sherlock and let himself fall asleep.


	16. Chapter 16: The Thoughtful Morning

Sherlock was sitting in the Great Hall for no particular reason early that morning other than the fact that he just didn't want to be in his room anymore. He'd been trying very hard to think, only everyone was breathing far too loudly for that to be possible. It made him wish he'd slept in the Room of Requirement last night instead, since John's steady breathing has he slept had the same effect as the quietly rolling thunder from the ceiling of the Room. It was calming and made his mind quicker at the same time.

But John didn't like to be babied, and he thought the only reason Sherlock wanted to spend the nights with him was to keep him safe. Though that was a part of it, certainly, more of it was just because Sherlock liked to be around John as often as he could be, as odd as that was for him to try to wrap his head around.

So it was six thirty in the morning and the Great Hall was empty other than professors that wanted to eat before they prepared for their classes. It was Friday of the last boring week for the rest of the term. This weekend there was no events, but next weekend there was Hogsmeade, and then the next weekend was the second Quidditch match (Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw), and then the weekend after that was Apparition lessons for students that will be seventeen (which included John), and after that was the last week of the term, which meant that the following weekend would involve a great deal of parties celebrating their survival of this term.

Sherlock didn't care very much about any of it, except for that fact that this weekend was his last chance to do anything that takes an extended period of time with John, since every other weekend this term would have events that John would likely want to participate in. Which meant Sherlock had a great many things to take care of today, so that he could take John—

"Dear brother," came the voice of someone Sherlock very much didn't want to see.

"Mycroft," replied Sherlock.

Mycroft sat down across from him.

"Oh, yes, of course, take a seat."

"I've been meaning to speak with you, but I was—"

"Preoccupied with your romance with Lestrade?"

Mycroft pursed his lips. "In fact, I was."

"You, of all people, in a relationship. You've scoffed at relationships your whole life."

"Quite true. But maybe I didn't give them quite enough credit."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"But, actually, that is related to what I wanted to speak to you about." He paused. "I know you gave me a potion that made me act the way I did with Gregory."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I did nothing of the sort."

"Oh, don't lie. I'm not actually that angry, considering the outcome. I really should be thanking you."

"It'd be silly to thank me, since I didn't do it," said Sherlock flatly.

"Come, Sherlock—"

"Believe what you want," said Sherlock. "but it wasn't me."

Mycroft looked at him with eyebrows together. "You're telling the truth."

"I am," agreed Sherlock.

"But… who was it, then?"

"It hardly matters, does it? As you said, the results were desirable."

"But someone actually managed to trick me. _Me_, Sherlock. I need to know who this person is, because they must be terribly clever."

Sherlock managed not to laugh. Mycroft would never guess John with that criteria, not in a million years.

"Are you going to question everyone in the school until you find out?" asked Sherlock.

"I might."

There was a long silence before Sherlock said, "Well, if that's all, you can go now."

"Actually, it's not," said Mycroft.

"Oh, joy," Sherlock said sardonically.

"I wanted to speak with you about what happened to John on the Quidditch pitch."

"His broom was cursed. It had to have been," Sherlock said.

"I quite agree. But who is after John?"

Sherlock was quiet. Nobody ever listened to his theory about Moriarty. Mycroft, who was a Slytherin, would be even less likely to. He'd have to skim around that detail.

"Someone who's got a problem with Muggleborns has been doing strange things in the past few years," said Sherlock.

"How do you mean?"

"It all started with Sabrina Morgan."

Mycroft nodded. "I never believed it was an accident, her death."

"It wasn't. She was the first Muggleborn attacked. Since then, nobody's died. I think it's because the person realised killing them brings too much attention. So whoever it is seems to be pulling… well, for lack of a better word, _pranks_."

"Pranks."

"Yes, Mycroft, listen. The year after Sabrina Morgan, there was the girl Georgia who got followed around for a ages by brooms that were swatting at her, which seemed harmless until they realised she was getting severe bruising from it. Then last year there was Erron McLemore, who got the Polyjuice potion with the hair of a pig, and when they got him better, got it again another three times. And this year is Yancey from the Quidditch team with the arms that don't work. They're all Muggleborns, they all happened just about the same time of year as the first killing."

"But why would someone pull pranks on Muggleborns if they hate them?"

"These are pretty severe pranks, Mycroft. For all of them, they were in the Hospital wing for months."

"But still, it seems… silly."

"It _is_ silly," Sherlock agreed. "Someone has a strange sense of humour."

"But then doesn't that mean that the hex put on John's broom breaks the pattern?"

"It does," replied Sherlock, "which might mean whoever is doing this plans to take things a step further this year."

Mycroft nodded after a moment. "From anyone else, I might not believe it, but from you… you might be on to something. Do you have any ideas on who it might be?"

"I have ideas," Sherlock replied vaguely.

Mycroft looked at him in irritation. "Would you mind sharing with the class?" he asked dryly. Sherlock glared at him in silence. "Fine," Mycroft said, standing up. "Don't tell me. But if you're right, I'd watch John quite closely from now on."

He walked away and met with Lestrade, who had only just entered the hall. Sherlock shook his head and rolled his eyes. His brother, in love. It was ridiculous to watch.

But somehow he was still just the slightest bit jealous. How strange.

But no, it wasn't strange. Sherlock had officially decided that his vow of silence on the matter just wouldn't do. John had been giving too many possible signs of interest for them to both skate around the issue for any longer. It was actually distracting to Sherlock that nothing had really happened yet, because he sat and wondered and wondered and _wondered_ at what could be possible if he just told John. They were close enough at this point that Sherlock was sure that, even if he was wrong about John's signals, it wouldn't ruin their friendship. John would have to be completely stupid not to notice the spark between them, and as much as Sherlock said it, he was not, in fact, stupid. Well, not _completely_ stupid.

Sherlock had a bit of a plan, actually. His next adventure involved the two of them being out of the castle together for two and a half days. They'd be completely alone, John would likely be frightened and want some comfort… it was the best time Sherlock could think of to breach the subject.

He still, however, had no idea what to say. Saying he was inexperienced in the area was a grievous understatement. He'd never even felt something like this before, not once in his life. He didn't even know where to start on expressing it.

John.

John John John.

Sherlock felt like he couldn't get him out of his head no matter how hard he tried. The way his sand coloured hair fell over the top of his forehead, the deep sapphire of his eyes, the look he'd sometimes give Sherlock when he did something brilliant…

And right around the time he thought that was when two people sat in front of him. Lestrade and Mycroft.

"You look extra broody this morning," said Lestrade.

"Do you two need something?" Sherlock asked coldly.

"I think it's you who needs us," replied Lestrade with a cheeky grin.

"I doubt that," Sherlock responded.

"But you're thinking about John," said Mycroft. "And that, you need help with, I guarantee."

"I'm not thinking about John," said Sherlock defensively.

"Even I can tell that, and I'm an idiot," said Lestrade matter-of-factly. "Well, in your eyes, at least," he added.

Sherlock considered denying it again, but it was useless. "I don't need your help," he snapped.

"You sure?" asked Lestrade, and Sherlock might've considered stooping down to that level, except for the patronising smile that Lestrade and Mycroft were sharing.

He sat his jaw. "I'd appreciate it if you'd both leave me be," he said quietly, danger in his voice.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and they stood.

"I told you he wouldn't accept your help," said Mycroft.

"Well, I thought I'd try," he replied.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms on the table, resting his chin on them. He didn't need anyone's help, much less the two of them.

Even though he still had no idea what to do or say with this whole John thing.

He sighed. Designing dangerous adventures to prove someone's bravery? Thoughtless. Telling said person about their feelings for them? Seemingly impossible.


	17. Adventure 7 Part 1: The Forbidden Forest

**Because of the largeness of this whole Forbidden Forest section, the layout of this chapter is going to be different than the others. It will start with how they get into the Forest, but this chapter, which you can see is only part one of the Forbidden Forest section, is going to contain several named sections, each about the length of a drabble, of a few of the many many mini-adventures they have here. If I put too many details, this chapter will be 20,000 words and I'm trying to avoid that. **

**Then the next chapter will be laid out like the rest have been, with the main strain of the Forbidden Forest section. I think all you Johnlock fans will really like the next section. ; D but anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

John was on his way to Defense Against the Dark Arts when a voice came from under his cloak. He rolled his eyes. He'd only just left Sherlock a few minutes earlier. What on earth did he have to say already?

He lifted up his cloak to reveal the pin underneath. He had it pinned so that it was facing his body instead of outwards, like a pin should be, since he was not a fan of the Harpies and thus did not want to wear a pin that advertised them. He had to wear it at all times because of Sherlock though, who refused to just enchant something else out of stubbornness, so he just pinned it inside his cloak instead of outside.

Problem was, it made the speech all warbled, so he had to lift up his cloak to actually use it.

He ducked into a little niche and lifted up the cloak and got out his wand. "_Afforto_. Sorry, I missed that. Say again? _Quiesio_." There was enough of a pause that John knew Sherlock had stopped to groan, so John added, "_Afforto_. Yes, I know, you _loathe_ repeating yourself. Get over it. _Quiesio_."

"I _said_ did you know that Potions is cancelled this afternoon?"

John remembered then, quite randomly, that he'd been told to practise his non-verbal spell casting before this next class. He decided that now was a good time to try. Instead of saying the spell word, he thought it as he tapped the pin with his wand. "Yes, I know," John then replied. "Slughorn is sick or something."

And Sherlock responded, so he mentally patted himself on the back, because it must've worked. "He's been getting sick a lot lately, don't you think?" said Sherlock. "But that's not the point. After Defense, go back to your dormitory and pack some supplies for a few days."

"Another adventure?" John asked, and he was a bit surprised at the excitement in his voice. He used to dread these things, but now he was actually pretty ecstatic every time Sherlock mentioned one.

"Yes. Meet me outside as soon as you're packed. And try not to make the bag _obvious_."

"Outside? Not the Room of Requirement?"

"Not this time."

So John went through Defense without thinking about it very much, which led to him almost taking off someone's ear, which Professor Moriarty was a bit displeased with, but then he nearly ran to his room to grab what he would need. This one was going to take several days? Where were they even going? His mind was buzzing loudly as he packed up anything he might need, but as he didn't know where he was going, he didn't know what to take other than the basics for staying somewhere overnight. He hoped Sherlock thought of all the things they'd need.

When he got outside, it was pretty much vacant. It was icy out, from snow that fell several days before but never completely melted, which meant it wasn't so much a good venue for snowball fights as it was a death trap.

"That was fast," Sherlock said, impressed.

"Well, I sort of ran," admitted John. This triggered the frequent flick upwards of Sherlock's eyebrow, which made John add defensively, "What? I was excited."

Sherlock smiled smugly before saying, "The fact that nobody is out here coupled with the fact that there's no social gatherings planned for this weekend make this the perfect time for this particular adventure."

"Alright, what is it?" asked John.

"Come on," replied Sherlock.

"Wait, you don't have anything on you."

"Yes I do," replied Sherlock, lifting up a small backpack sort of thing. Before John could mention that this couldn't possibly have everything they needed, Sherlock said, "It's enchanted. Bigger on the inside."

"Like the TARDIS."

"What?"

John forgot that wizards probably didn't watch Doctor Who, and that his Muggle upbringing was what made him familiar with it. "Nevermind," he said. "But anyway, what're we doing?"

"Follow me and you'll see."

John rolled his eyes and followed, not bothering to mention once again that Sherlock got off on being vague, since they both already knew it.

Then John felt an odd sense of déjà vu because they were again walking towards Hagrid's hut, the same way they had been when they went to see the Thestrals, and John already knew they were going to pass up the cabin and go straight into the Forest.

"So… into the Forest, then?"

"Naturally," Sherlock replied, walking inside.

"And we're, what, going to stay for days?" he asked, gesturing to his bags.

"Yes."

"Anything specific we need to get done while we're here?"

"Oh, a few things," Sherlock said vaguely, which meant John probably wouldn't like it.

"Sherlock, can you please, _please_ not do this? This 'I won't tell you what we're going until we do it' thing? I trust you enough to let you take me into a dangerous forest for _several_ _days_, so can you trust me enough to tell me what your plans are?"

Sherlock stopped walking and looked back to John. "It's not a question of trust."

"Are you sure about that? Because it seems like you just think I'm so stupid I'll fuck up all your plans if I know what we're doing."

He looked genuinely surprised by John's words. "I've told you, it's because it makes you nervous."

"Yeah, you say a lot of things," John muttered, starting to walk again.

It was a long moment of silence before Sherlock's wand tip lit up with a silent casting of _lumos_ and then said, "We're going to find a herd of centaurs just to say we've seen one, first of all. I'd also like to see a unicorn, if we can, but that is more based on luck than searching. I'm nearly positive there's a three headed dog in here named Fluffy and I'd like to see him too. Then there's a colony of Acromantulas in the forest and I'd really like to get a hold of some of their venom, because it's quite useful in certain potions."

John blinked at Sherlock with pursed lips. "Is that all?" he asked dryly.

"Well, there's also some werewolves that I'd like to see in person, and blood-sucking bugbears and bowtruckles and—"

"What about Ford Anglias?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"Well, there's a car up ahead. A Ford Anglia."

Sherlock squinted his eyes. "So there is," he agreed, walking forward.

They walked up and Sherlock walked around it, looking at it like it was something he'd never seen before.

"The trees are so close in here, it's hard to imagine someone drove this thing around," said John.

"And look at the damage!" said Sherlock. "It looks like this car has been through a great many traumas."

"It's a wonder it kept working long enough to get into this many accidents, yeah?"

Sherlock looked to John. "What if it still works?"

"No bloody way," said John. "After all this?"

"This is Hogwarts, John. We've seen stranger."

"True…"

John was the one on the driver's side, so he went to open the door.

And when he pulled on the handle, the headlights on the Anglia blazed to life, making John jump and yelp, and the car puttered away through the trees.

Sherlock looked entertained. "I think you offended it," he said seriously.

John just stared after the car, which was going deeper into the Forest.

This was going to be a strange, _strange_ weekend.

* * *

**— Spying Centaurs —**

"Sherlock, are we staying up all damn night?" asked John. "We've been walking for _hours_. Do you have some sleeping bags in that magical bag of yours?"

"John, are you aware of how much you complain?"

"Oh, shut it."

"Wait," said Sherlock. "Quiet. Up ahead."

His wand abruptly went out, and it was so pitch black that they had to blindly reach for each other's hands as not to lose each other, and they walked forward. John was flailing his hand that wasn't in Sherlock's grasp in front of him to make sure he didn't hit a tree, and he wondered if Sherlock was doing the same.

But then enough light came from ahead that they could see anyway.

There was a clearing ahead, and through it the moon and stars shown through, making it possible to actually see in the blackness.

And in the clearing were Centaurs. John had heard of a Centaur, but seeing it in person was something very different. In his head, they didn't seem quite so big, or carry themselves both menacingly and regally at the same time, like they were the kings of the forest and they could use both their wit and their brawn to prove it.

"And the placement of Mars," one of them was saying, "means that…"

John mostly just stared at them, not bothering to try to understand their Astronomy babble. Sherlock probably was ignoring it too, since he didn't know the Earth went 'round the sun until Astronomy as a first year, and Sherlock had probably forgotten that fact again by now.

Then, suddenly, one of the more rugged of the beasts said sharply, "Do you smell something?"

The two looked at each other and Sherlock nodded for them to move back. They tiptoed away silently and they heard no sign of pursuit.

**— Bothering Bowtruckles —**

John was getting really tired by now, but he didn't want to complain again, since that likely wasn't a very Gryffindor thing to do. He did sigh a lot though, and yawn, and really hoped Sherlock could hear it and that he felt a little bad.

More than likely, he _did_ hear it, but didn't care at all. Or found it funny.

Then John accidentally kicked a root sticking out of the ground that the illumination coming out of his and Sherlock's wands didn't catch.

"OW! Damn it, fuck, shit, ow, shit, sodding _fuck_…" and so on and so forth.

"Oh, you're fine, John."

"Well, yeah, but it still bloody well hurt!"

Sherlock's eyes could be seen rolling even in the minimal light. John leaned against a tree, considering taking off his shoe to get a better look, because he really thought he might've broken it.

Then he felt a sharp pain in his arm.

"_OW_!" he yelled again. He grabbed his arm and felt a hot, sticky substance seeping from it. He turned. "What _was_ that?"

Sherlock was at his side, his wand pointed at the bark behind John. "A Bowtruckle," he said. "The guardian of this tree. We should go to another one."

John glared at the general direction of the Bowtruckle before moving to follow Sherlock to another tree. He then mended the broken toe and the wound in his arm and they walked once more.

**— Cozy Clearing —**

"This'll do fine," said Sherlock as they walked into another area where the trees were far enough apart to show the moon and stars.

"For what?"

"What you've been silently begging for for ages. Bedtime."

"Oh, thank god. How can I help?"

Sherlock then pulled something out of his backpack, able to reach his arm all the way in to the shoulder when it appeared much too small for that, and pulled out… something. He threw it in front of them and as he looked, the thing assembled itself into a tiny tent.

"Oh, that's nice," said John.

"Yes. We'll just need to make it invisible. I can handle that."

John went inside and saw that it was fairly simple (though, another TARDIS magical item like the bag, because it was much larger on the inside than it appeared outside). A table of food that he ravaged at for a moment, finding himself starving, and two beds.

He got in bed before Sherlock came inside, half hoping he might come join him on his own bed. But he heard when Sherlock came in and lay down on the bed next to him.

"What if something comes to eat us in the night?"

"Let's hope it doesn't."

**— Finding Fluffy —**

John was relieved to be doing this in daylight now. Sure, it was mostly murky and dim under the trees, but it wasn't dark enough to need their wands lit, and it just made John feel a great deal safer to be able to see more than a metre or two ahead of him.

Well, it made him feel a bit safer until he heard the really, _really_ loud growling coming from their immediate left.

John and Sherlock both looked over with wide eyes and could see, high above them, the head of a dog—except, there wasn't just one head.

"Fairly certain that's Fluffy," said Sherlock blandly.

"Why do you keep calling it that?" John asked.

"Because that's what Hagrid named him."

"And you know that because…"

"It's amazing the things you learn about someone when you get them intoxicated," he replied. As he said this, he was shuffling through his little backpack. "Oh… no, not that… erm… right… right there. Yes, there it is."

Then he pulled out his violin case.

"Are you fucking _joking_, Sherlock? Now?"

He ignored John and got out the instrument quickly and began to play.

And the dog's many eyes began to droop. A minute more of playing and it was snoring.

"Oh," said John.

"Come on," Sherlock said. "I'll keep playing as we walk away, or he'll wake up."

"And if he keeps following us?"

"Then we get eaten and die," said Sherlock.

"You're really not helpful."

"I know."

**— Stopping Skrewts —**

John couldn't even guess how far they were from Hogwarts. Or where Hogwarts would even be from here. He hoped Sherlock had devised a way to get back.

And then, as they kept on walking, John taking some Wideye potion every few hours because all the walking was exhausting, they got lucky.

Up ahead, there was a unicorn.

"Sherlock," John breathed. "Look."

Sherlock squinted his eyes for a moment, and then he saw it. "John, go."

"Go…"

"Closer. I don't think I should."

"Why not?"

"There's something… pure about them. I don't want to disturb it."

John was surprised that this kind of concern was coming from Sherlock, but didn't argue, as the unicorn seemed to be pulling on his mind, like even if he didn't want to go over, he wouldn't be able to help himself.

He slowly got closer, and at one point, it noticed him. He felt like it was much smarter than John gave animals credit for, its eyes glowing like molten silver. Something in John's chest felt soft as he looked at it, and a smile found his face.

Then, out of nowhere, a gross hybrid between a lobster and a scorpion barreled into the area. A Blast-Ended Skrewt. Oh no. He'd studied them in class. Hardly any spell could work on them because of their shells and—

Then the unicorn came forward, all slow like it didn't matter, and touched the tip of its horn to the Skrewt. It froze in place, its beady eyes looking up at the majestic creature, as if longing to stab it.

Then the unicorn met John's eyes once more before fleeing the area, and Sherlock had to drag him away, saying that the Skrewt would eventually begin to move again if they lingered.

**— Hijacking Hippogriffs —**

"Sherlock, come on. I can't ride it."

"Sure you can. You saw someone ride it for Care of Magical Creatures once."

"Yeah, under Hagrid's supervision."

"What's wrong with my supervision?"

John sighed. "Why don't you ride it?"

"I'm not the one proving my bravery."

John grumbled for a moment. "Okay, okay, I will."

John went through the process of bowing to the beast as he was taught, looking up into the amber eyes nervously…

And then, as John was in the process of doing this, carefully earning the animal's trust, Sherlock, quicker than John expected, suddenly jumped onto the thing's back. It tried to buck him off, but Sherlock held on.

"You idiot," John muttered, but he stayed quiet and still, not wanting to get attacked. Then it really bucked, and Sherlock was thrown off. The Hippogriff flew away indignantly.

John ran over to him. "That was really stupid," he said.

"Yes, I agree. I wanted to see what would happen though."

John shook his head. "I love you, you know that?"

They both froze.

"In, like, a friend sort of way."

"Right," Sherlock said, and after a little more healing magic, they trekked through the wilderness once more.

* * *

It was getting dark again, but John by no means thought that meant that they were going to stop.

But, for some reason, they did. Sherlock stopped walking and reached into his bag.

"Sherlock? What're you doing?"

"Setting up camp."

"So early?"

"What, do you want to keep walking?"

"No… I'm just surprised."

"Well," Sherlock murmured. "I wanted to spend some time with you."

"Like we don't already do that."

"Quiet time. Alone time."

John somehow sensed there was more to the words than Sherlock was saying, and the thought made his stomach twist with both nervousness and excitement.

"Okay, camp now."

Sherlock smirked a bit as he put up the tent, and John couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock had in mind.


	18. Adventure 7 Part 2: The Tent Time

**So, just so you guys are aware, this is not in fact a smut chapter. In case you thought it was, it isn't (though it does contain a sexy moment or two). It'll be here eventually. Patience, perverts. And for you non-perverts that do not like le smut, I will give a warning before said chapter begins that the sex has arrived. **

* * *

John hadn't gotten a great look at the tent the night before, since he'd been exhausted at the time. Now he noticed more clearly how much bigger the inside was than the outside, since from the outside it seemed that even someone of below average height like him would have to bend over double just to stand inside. But in reality, it was high enough that Sherlock could walk around comfortably. And it fit two double beds as well, and a table in between that had food on it. John couldn't help but wonder how none of it went bad, but the answer to that, like most things at Hogwarts, was magic.

Sherlock was still outside doing spells to shield the tent from unsavoury types, and John sat on the bed and considered all he had seen so far. Centaurs, werewolves, bugbears, bowtruckles, a three headed dog, a unicorn, a Blast-Ended Skrewt, a Hippogriff, something that looked like a young forest troll… most they saw from afar, looked at for a moment, and then walked away before it could notice them and try to murder them. Even Sherlock admitted that they couldn't fight off all of these things, and that he didn't really want to, because the specimens were too intriguing to kill. He did say though that when they found Acromantulas, which he still intended to do, they would need to kill one to get the venom. John wondered how he planned to kill one, but wasn't thinking about it too much.

Sherlock came inside, and under the gas lamp that hung from the ceiling in the tent, John could see Sherlock clearly for the first time, when he wasn't groggy with exhaustion or in the muggy dark of the forest (because even during the day, it was pretty dark beneath the trees).

And John had to say, Sherlock didn't look very good. His eyes were bright with excitement, and he didn't look tired, that wasn't it, but he just looked… injured. John had gotten hurt more than half a dozen times by then, but each time it happened, Sherlock would fix him up and they'd keep going. But Sherlock only ever even admitted to being injured at all when the Hippogriff had bucked him off, and he had to admit it then because John watched it all happen. Now John saw that Sherlock was limping on his left leg, the arm of his robe was ripped wide open, probably with an injury beneath, and there was a long cut on his face that extended from his temple to the corner of his mouth.

"Sherlock, maybe I should fix you up," said John.

Sherlock glanced down at his leg for barely a second, like it was subconscious, before saying, "What do you mean?"

"I mean your leg and your face, for starters."

"Well…" Sherlock muttered.

"Come on, Sherlock. Please trust me."

Sherlock looked up, looking very much like he had the day before when he said it wasn't a question of trust, but this time he just nodded and lay down on one of the beds.

John took a look at the leg first.

"Geez, Sherlock, I think you broke your ankle. And you've been walking on it!"

"It wasn't that bad."

"When did you do this?"

"I originally hurt it from the Hippogriff, but I think when we ran from that Bugbear it got worse," said Sherlock.

"You idiot," John muttered. "Why didn't you let me fix this earlier?"

"I knew it couldn't actually be fixed by one of us, that I'd need a splint or something. Plus, it seemed unimportant."

"More like because you don't think I'm capable of healing you."

There was silence. "Well, admittedly, I can only assume I'm better than you at Healing magic. Plus, you can't heal major broken bones with simple m—"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, however, when John flicked his wand at Sherlock's leg and immediately, the swelling all but vanished.

Sherlock gaped up at John. "I don't even know how to heal a bone like this, John."

"I've told you before, I want to be a Healer someday. I've made it my business to learn these types of things. I've seen Madam Pomfrey more than once, asking her how to do Advanced Healing magic."

Sherlock continued to stare for a few more seconds before smiling. "I've never met anyone before that surprises me quite as frequently as you do."

"Is that a good thing?" asked John with a smirk.

"I never get bored, so yes."

John smiled. "Come on. What else have you got that I can't see?"

Sherlock looked sheepish, which was a peculiar look on the face that never was ashamed of anything. "I think I have a broken rib or two, but I wasn't going to mention it because I figured you couldn't do anything about it."

John rolled his eyes and got to work fixing Sherlock, and each time he finished one thing, Sherlock would quietly mention another thing.

"John, you really are quite good at this," Sherlock kept saying, which John found extremely flattering, since he usually wasn't one for compliments. "This one might not even scar," he said. "That one on your arm that I closed up from the Bowtruckle is going to scar," said Sherlock matter-of-factly.

"That's alright. Scars make all the girls go crazy."

"Are you trying to impress girls?" asked Sherlock, and something in his voice made John look up to him, meeting his cool blue eyes steadily.

"No, not really," John admitted. "I've… well, I already fancy someone, you see. And they aren't really the type to find scars impressive, I don't think."

"Well it sounds like this person is rather hard to impress," Sherlock said seriously, but a smirk was threatening to reach his lips.

"They are, trust me. And they're a royal prat, half the time… but they're also kind of the most amazing person I've ever met too. Does that even make sense?"

"Well, I'll tell you a secret," said Sherlock. "I have attained… feelings… for someone as well. And half the time, I think they're a blundering, whiny idiot. But at the same time, they're the only person I've ever really cared about. So probably we're both just weird and have bad taste."

"Yeah, probably," John agreed, and he didn't notice when Sherlock had sat up, but now their faces were close to one another's. Closer than John expected.

And, John couldn't help it, so when they were close enough to each other that John could feel Sherlock's breath on his chin, he said quietly with a smile, "You like Greg, don't you?"

Sherlock smirked. "And you like Mycroft?"

"Oh, you caught me," John said, but still their faces were floating closer to each other, and their voices were quiet and sensual, not fitting the conversation.

"But, it seems both of them are otherwise engaged," Sherlock said.

"So we'll just have to settle for each other then?" asked John.

"It seems so," Sherlock as able to say before John couldn't take it anymore and he lurched forward, pressing his lips hard to Sherlock's.

And John never in his life could have guessed how intense it would be. It was like the moment they touched, John was simultaneously doused in ice water and lit on fire, rejuvenated and more _alive_ than he'd ever felt in his life.

They both reacted with surprised enthusiasm, grabbing onto each other and pressing into the other as hard as they could.

John was the one that coaxed Sherlock's mouth open enough to plunge his tongue inside, and still the moment got more and more passionate. How could he ever have been afraid of this? Ashamed that he liked a boy, or scared that Sherlock might not want him too? Now that he was here, and this was really happening, it felt so perfect, so meant-to-be. Like neither of them ever realised where they belonged before now.

After an eternity that passed by far too quickly, the two separated, breathing harder than they had all weekend running from things that wanted to kill them. John had never seen that light in Sherlock's eyes, like he was genuinely… happy.

"It surprises even me how long I've wanted to do that," Sherlock said.

John chuckled. "Was it like you imagined?"

"Not at all," Sherlock said. Then he was the one that surged forward and found John's lips once more, and then lay back on the bed with John still pressed to him, so John was forced to climb onto his lap. John could clearly feel Sherlock's erection underneath him, fairly close to his own, and he wasn't sure why that surprised him. Because he never considered that Sherlock had any sort of sex drive? In fact, Sherlock's enthusiasm in general was pretty shocking, the way that his hands pulled John ever closer to him with such force that it might actually bruise (and John couldn't care less, actually), that he'd sometimes tangle his fingers in John's hair or let his hands just barely graze beneath his shirt, giving John a shiver of sensation each time.

John was suddenly reminded of he and Sherlock's experience in the music room, how John felt like he was different than he was before and understood Sherlock in a way he never could previously. It was the same thing over again, but—if possible—in an even deeper sense. He couldn't help but regret all the time they wasted being afraid, but now none of that mattered, because with every part of them touching like this, they for once were on exactly the same page.

They both backed away from each other then at the same time, like they'd mentally agreed it was time. John wasn't sure why Sherlock did it, but John didn't want it to go too far too soon. One thing that really could ruin their relationship was if they decided to have sex right then and there and never built upon what they only just begun to build.

John decided that he'd never seen Sherlock's cheeks flushed before, not even in the cold or after running. That paired with his bright eyes that looked like the sea, glittering between green and blue and gray in their excitement, made John realise, really realise for the first time that Sherlock was beautiful. And maybe it was weird to call him that, but there was no other word that was quite right. A work of art. John had compared Sherlock to that before, but it rang true now more than it ever had. In the freezing cold night air, with them both mending from wounds from beasts, all John could really think was, 'Wow. You're gorgeous.'

Not that he'd ever, _ever_ say that out loud. Knowing Sherlock, he'd laugh at him. Or roll his eyes. Or something like that.

So instead, John just kept gazing down at him, still lying on top of him with his legs straddled on either side of his hips, and tried to translate everything he was thinking through his eyes. Sherlock was clever enough, he'd probably see it all without John having to say a word.

"How is this different than you imagined?" John asked.

"I always looked at this type of activity as a completely mental thing, something that only the weak of mind could enjoy thoroughly."

"Sex is biological, Sherlock," said John.

"Well, I know it is… I just didn't know the sensations that come with it were." John digested that for a moment. "I figured you would forget you asked that," Sherlock added with a smirk. "After me kissing you, I mean."

"I'm more experienced with this kind of situation, you know," John teased. "I know how to keep my head."

"So do I."

"Sure you do."

"I _never_ lose my head," Sherlock said seriously.

"I bet I could make you lose it," John insisted, only half joking now.

"I'm not capable of losing it," Sherlock maintained.

John sat up and abruptly grabbed Sherlock's bulge. Sherlock gasped in surprise, but it sounded half like a moan, which made John feel quite satisfied. "Because you're capable of this reaction," said John, his voice low and gravelly, "that means I can make you forget everything you've ever thought, if only for a little while."

Sherlock looked stunned and incredibly horny at the same time, and John decided he could really get used to seeing that look on his face. John half thought Sherlock might try to deny it again, but he just kept staring at John, like he'd never really seen him before now.

"Now," John said, getting up while Sherlock was already stunned into silence. "Don't think I haven't noticed that you haven't eaten since we left the castle. Because the only time I even have is when we were in this tent. So you're eating something right now."

Sherlock sat up and rolled his eyes. "Eating's boring," he groaned.

"But you have to," John said, grabbing some lunch meat and slapping it on some bread.

"Whyyyyy?" Sherlock complained.

John looked over to him seriously. "Because I care about you and I don't want you to die because you don't take care of yourself."

He handed the sandwich over, and after a moment Sherlock took a grudging bite. "You don't honestly think I'm going to die of starvation, do you?" asked Sherlock, as if it was a ridiculous thing to think.

"Well, it's not likely, but at the same time, I wouldn't be that shocked. Sherlock, you just don't do the things you need to, like eat and sleep, and you say it's because it all distracts you from thinking, but I think it's really that nobody's ever cared if you stay healthy or not, so you never got into the habit of it because nobody minded if you were slowly killing yourself. But _I_ mind, Sherlock. I need you to be healthy. And if you die from something stupid like that while I'm around, I'm going to worry for the rest of my life that I could've said something, anything, to fix it. You're already more likely to die than the average person, or even the average wizard, because you do dangerous things frequently. And Sherlock, I just, really, _really_ don't want to lose you. So could you just humour me?" John didn't expect to give Sherlock a bloody speech about it, but once he began speaking, it took him a while to force himself to shut up.

Again, Sherlock looked surprised, like he'd never known John was capable of complex thought. God, the fucking Holmes brothers. Would they ever stop underestimating him? He wasn't on their level, sure, but he wasn't a pile of useless dog shit either.

Sherlock, in response to all that John said, finished off the sandwich without complaining. John lay himself out on the other bed, not wanting to distract Sherlock from eating, since he did it so infrequently. He stared at the fabric ceiling and considered all that had happened in the short amount of time they'd been in the tent.

Well, it was out there. Their feelings, which were mutual. John should've figured that one out earlier, he admitted, but in his defense, so should Sherlock, since _he_ was the proper genius of the pair.

John was so consumed in his own thoughts that he didn't notice Sherlock coming over until he was already lying next to him on the bed. He rested his head on John's chest and John put his arms around him. He hadn't consciously realised he was cold until Sherlock came over and he immediately felt warmer.

"So did you plan this whole weekend just so this could happen?" John asked quietly.

"Well… I really do need some Acromantula venom," Sherlock said.

"But mostly you just wanted this to happen," John teased.

Sherlock didn't respond, just wound his own arm around John's waist, and John smiled, letting himself relax into sleep.

* * *

**Soo there's another Forbidden Forest chapter. One last one. Action packed killy fun. I didn't mean for there to be three, originally... but too damn bad. Anywho. Sorry, obsessive author's notes again. But compared to my stories usually, I'm doing a good job, because I usually have one before and after every chapter. **


	19. Adventure 7 Part 3: The Journey Back

Sherlock didn't know how nice it could feel to have someone sleep next to him.

He had his very first experience of it when he had to warm John up after his swim in the Black Lake. But Sherlock really only had been thinking of John's safety at the time, even if he was pleasantly surprised when John leaned into him so willingly.

Then after that was the time after the Chamber of Secrets. It had felt different that time than the first, because John still rested close against him even when he wasn't freezing half to death. He'd fallen asleep barely a moment later, too exhausted to stay awake a moment longer. Sherlock had been surprised at how the sound of John's relaxed breathing had made his mind feel clearer. Well, he'd also been surprised that he was so worried about John. But Sherlock was sure, absolutely sure, that Professor Moriarty was after Muggleborns, and he'd already gone after John once… But that was another part of why sleeping next to John had been strange, because it made Sherlock so relieved. He didn't realise how much he worried about him until then, until the sense of calm he felt when he was there and Sherlock didn't have to worry anymore.

And now, they were huddled together again, but this something completely unlike the other times had been. Sherlock had never noticed before how warm John was… but it was more than that. Like his skin lit Sherlock's on fire… but somehow that was still pleasant. It hardly made any sense to him, but he wasn't sure he cared.

He'd dozed off and gotten a few hours of sleep at a time that night. Usually he might not have slept at all, but after what John had said the night before… well, he thought maybe John had a point. That now that Sherlock had John in his life, he needed to take better care of himself than he normally did. Not that he'd admit John was right out loud, of course…

John shuffled beside him and let out a yawn.

"Good morning, John."

"Wow, last night actually happened," he mumbled in reply. "I thought maybe it was a dream."

Sherlock smirked and looked up. "Do you often dream about us kissing?"

John went red. "Well… it's crossed my mind…"

Sherlock craned his head upward enough to catch John's lips, savouring the feel of it.

That was another thing he never could have expected would be so enjoyable. He felt like he could kiss John for hours and hours and never get bored of it. There were so many things to evaluate. The contours of his mouth against Sherlock's, how they fit next to each other perfectly. John's scent from so close. Just John's reactions in general, both intentional and accidental.

As he thought of this, it made him take John's neck with one of his hands to pull him closer. John wound both his arms around Sherlock, squeezing hard.

But then Sherlock backed away.

"Well, we've still got things to do today before we go back to the castle," said Sherlock.

"Can't we just stay here and kiss instead?" John complained.

Sherlock smirked. "That actually does not sound unpleasant, but unfortunately, I still need Acromantula venom."

"Why the hell do you need it anyway?"

"I already told you—"

"Yeah, yeah, various potions. But Sherlock, both Basilisk fangs and Acromantula venom? Whatever you're making can't be good."

"It's not," Sherlock agreed. "but I guarantee you, it's important. Can you please trust me?"

Sherlock was, like usual, unsure of whether John would really choose to trust him. But, like he always did, John looked irritated and nodded.

How had Sherlock earned his unwavering trust, anyway? But he figured he shouldn't question it too much. It was a gift he hardly deserved.

"Come," said Sherlock. "I need to get you armed for this part of the adventure."

"Wait, _armed_?"

Sherlock chuckled as he walked out of the tent.

* * *

They'd been walking for a long time, and John was just getting to the point where he was going to start whining, Sherlock knew it.

"Alright, now I should give it to you," Sherlock decided.

"Give _what_ to me?" John asked, his irritation obvious in his voice.

"Your weapon."

"You mean my wand? I've got that."

"No, I mean this," Sherlock said, holding open the bag. John just stared at him, and Sherlock stared back until John looked down at the bag apprehensively, and then put his hand in. He pulled it back out and now in his grasp was a sword encrusted with rubies.

John gaped at it. "Wait. Is that… is that the sword of Gryffindor?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, come on, can't you answer that question yourself?" Even as he asked that, he knew exactly what confused expression John would don, so Sherlock decided not to wait for an answer and just said, "That sword is locked up somewhere tight, somewhere even I couldn't get to it. The sword sometimes appears to people, but it wouldn't appear to me, because I'm not a Gryffindor."

"Oh… erm, right, I guess," John muttered, leaning over and taking the sword. "but why is this better than my wand then? Is it still a magic sword?"

Sherlock wanted to laugh, but kept his face serious. "It's not better than your wand. That's the point."

"Wait, _what_?"

"I'm taking your wand from you and you're only to use that."

John gaped. "But… why?"

"John, I thought we were done with stupid questions. You know what we're doing here."

"Yeah, you're bringing me deep into the forest so you can snog me."

"Ye—" Sherlock stopped and glared, somehow not expecting John to say that. "We're here to test your dedication and your daring. And if you wish to keep being a child about it, I can take the sword too."

"You'll have to fight me for it," joked John, wielding the sword in Sherlock's direction with a grin. Sherlock was starting to wonder if increasing John's confidence was a good idea after all. But at the same time, he couldn't keep himself from inwardly smiling.

Though on the outside, he kept his face as blank as always.

"So I'll stay near, but the nest is just in that direction," he said, pointing. "So just figure out a way to kill a spider. Then I must extract the venom in the forest, because it must be taken quickly after the Acromantula is dead."

"So how do I get it over to you? And how do I get one without pissing off the thousands of others?"

"Well, you should figure that out yourself, shouldn't—"

Then they were both stunned into silence (well, Sherlock was, because John kind of yelled out) when a car barreled into the area, honking and flashing its headlights.

"Bloody hell!" John yelped. The car shuddered to a stop, and they both just gaped.

Because there on the hood was an Acromantula. A young one, since it wasn't fifteen feet wide. It was scrambling around helplessly, obviously as shocked as Sherlock and John were.

They both now were just blinking at it.

"You've got to be joking me," said John then.

Sherlock didn't even know what to say. Sure, strange things happened at Hogwarts, but this was just ridiculous.

Then the Ford Anglia revved and went into reverse, the Acromantula falling off the hood as it did so, and then the car sped away, leaving the huge spider on the forest floor, still struggling to get up.

So John went forward, not even bothering to run or anything, and plunged the sword down into the head. It quickly stopped moving. Then he looked over at Sherlock, that cocky glint in his eye somehow really attractive.

"That was a lot easier than I thought it would be."

"It was easier than I intended," Sherlock agreed. He considered telling John he was just going to have to go and get another one, but really, Sherlock didn't need to. In fact, he didn't need to do any of this anymore. Maybe John didn't realise it himself yet, but he knew deep inside that he was really a Gryffindor. It was obvious by his change in demeanour since the beginning of all this. Old John wouldn't have had the guts to come into this forest, sure, but he also wouldn't have been able to tell Sherlock about his feelings either. Sherlock had done his job. Really, the only reason for the adventures now was for him to spend time with John.

But John didn't need to know that.

"Well, I'll just get that venom then," Sherlock said.

* * *

John sat and watched as Sherlock carefully took the venom from the huge dead spider. He didn't pay too much attention, really, because he was looking at the sword. There was just… something about it. Sherlock said it wasn't the actual sword of Gryffindor… but then why did it say his name on the blade? Was it a replica? It seemed like Sherlock would have mentioned that.

He decided not to think too much on it. Sherlock finished getting his venom and John gave the sword back to Sherlock, who stuck it into his magic TARDIS bag absently as he looked at his venom.

Then they started the long walk back. John wished that stupid magic car would stop driving away from them, because he really fancied a ride right about then. Not that he could drive, but it seemed like the car would do that for him anyhow.

But this left he and Sherlock with a lot of quiet time. Specifically time where Sherlock wasn't purposely looking for danger, so even though they nearly ran into a monster or two, they stopped and hid for long enough that none of them paid them any mind.

"So, Sherlock," John said after a while.

"Yes, John?"

"I only wondered… about last night…"

"What about it?"

"Well… it, you know, happened."

Sherlock looked back with a sardonic look on his face. "I thought we already established that."

"I know. It's just that… well, where exactly does that leave—"

"Oh, John, up ahead," hissed Sherlock.

"What?" John hissed, figuring it was some monsters ready to eat them.

"It's our ticket back to Hogwarts," said Sherlock. "I'd hoped we'd find some, we're hours into the forest."

"Find some what?" But then, for once, John had a flash of intuition. If he didn't see what Sherlock was talking about, then he knew exactly what he was talking about. "You mean Thestrals?" he asked.

"Exactly," he replied, taking John's hand and dragging him along.

"I can't ride a Thestral, Sherlock, I can't see them."

"Why on earth does that mean you can't fly one?"

John was silent for a moment. "Is that actually a question? How do you expect me to ride something I can't see?"

"With your _Gryffindor_ _courage_, of course," said Sherlock.

"I'm starting to get the feeling you only did all these adventures so you could mock me."

"I would never," replied Sherlock, and his voice sounded so serious that John had no idea if he was kidding or not.

Then Sherlock stopped walking and though John couldn't actually see what was there, he somehow knew they were in front of him, like he could feel it.

"There're two, aren't there?" asked John.

Sherlock looked over to him. "Yes, there are. Can you see them?"

"Well, no…" John thought back suddenly to Sabrina Morgan's bones in the Chamber. "But maybe, since I saw Sabrina, I understand death more than I used to. So I can… I dunno, feel them. Sort of. If that makes any sense."

Somehow, Sherlock looked a little sad, but then he nodded. "I guess that's possible. A comprehension of death is part of seeing them. I've just never heard of that." He was quiet another moment before he said, "Well, better get you on this thing."

Sherlock helped John onto his Thestral, and in the end John decided to get on with his eyes closed, because it was too disorienting to get on something that he couldn't actually see.

Then the horses took off, and John couldn't help but open his eyes. He looked down, and all he saw was the tops of the trees. It was like he was flying all on his own. He found himself grinning. He looked over to Sherlock, who was flying too, in that seated position that looked awkward when you couldn't see the beast beneath him. But when John looked at Sherlock like this, flying through the air, his hair blowing back, a slight smile trying to tug at his lips, he again found he had trouble looking away.

He'd never gotten to ask about them though. About what exactly they were now. It seemed he'd have to figure it out another day.

* * *

**Okay, sorry to bother you all again. Addicted to author's notes, what can I say. But I just wanted to say once again that I really, really appreciate reviews. Not just because they boost my ego (though, not going to lie, that's part of it), but because it tells me what you guys like and don't like so far, which means I can do more/less of it in the future. It's also your chance to tell me what you want to see, because I really try to take requests when I can. So yes. Please leave your thoughts so I know how I'm doing. Thanks!**


	20. Chapter 20: The Hogsmeade Trip

**So because I liked the layout of my chapter 17 (the first of the Forbidden Forest chapters), I'm using it again here, because it worked for me. There won't be as many sections and they won't be so short, but yeah, I just liked the little titles. Wow, I'm doing a horrible job of not doing author's notes! I suck! Sorry you have to listen to me talk. Hopefully I'll leave you alone for a bit now.**

**PS, this chapter is super long. I don't know whether to say "sorry" or "you're welcome".**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

John was really excited for the first Hogsmeade weekend of the school year. He'd already been excited, because he liked going—when he had permission, specifically, since he had actually gone to Honeydukes, but that was through a dark passage when he was about to pass out. But now he and Sherlock were… well, he had no idea what they were. But maybe it was finally time to find out.

The past week, they'd been the exact same as usual. They hadn't talked about what happened in the Forest, and John was starting to wonder if it had happened at all. Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything to do with the trip, not even any of the monsters. He'd been especially pensive though, like there was even more on his mind than usual. He went through one of his bouts of deciding not to speak for almost three days, during which time John just followed him wherever he went like a sad, lost puppy. Two nights in a row, Sherlock knocked on the Gryffindor common room door—much to the complaint of the Fat Lady, who didn't appreciate getting hit—and took John to the Muggle Music room again and played his music for hours, and John really enjoyed that, but the silence did get old eventually. John finally forced him to talk on Wednesday at lunch by questioning his intelligence, which made him snap right out of it.

John thought it was possible that Sherlock was upset by what happened, but he doubted it. Why would he still go out of his way to find John after classes and before his midnight strolls if he were angry? Plus, he'd learned Sherlock's ways to a point by now and he could usually tell the difference between him being upset over something John did and something else entirely. Plus, 'upset' wasn't the right word for how he was acting, just… thoughtful. 'Quiet' by no means meant 'wrong' when it came to Sherlock. That was just how he was sometimes. You got used to it.

So John woke up on Saturday and got ready quickly, almost skipping down the steps to get to the Great Hall. They were to leave right after breakfast.

He was half afraid that he thought Sherlock would despise the idea of going to Hogsmeade—with _permission_, no less—and wouldn't be down there, but he was there when John arrived, at the Gryffindor table on the end near the door, which was where they always sat. Nobody else was sitting with him yet, but that wasn't surprising, since usually John's friends waited until he showed up before they braved Sherlock's company.

John sat down at Sherlock's side and slapped some food onto his plate.

"What's this?" Sherlock asked in a voice that somehow managed to be bored and annoyed at the same time.

"Food. For you."

"I don't need any," said Sherlock.

"When's the last time you ate, anyway?" asked John.

"Recently," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes. "I don't believe that for a second."

Sherlock sighed. "Yesterday, John."

John's eyebrow flicked up. "Really?"

"Yes. You told me last weekend to start taking care of myself, so I am."

John was quiet for a long moment. Well, that meant their campout in the Forbidden Forest had actually happened, since Sherlock just referenced it.

John was about to mention that most people had to eat at least once a day, but then decided a moment later that if Sherlock was at least putting in some effort, John better not push it.

"Okay," John relented, taking Sherlock's now laden plate and trading it with the one in front of John, which was still empty.

"You're letting it go?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

John nodded. "You know your body better than I do. If you don't need it, then okay. Plus, you and I are going to lunch later."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Are we? A huge group of us all bonding over kippers? Sounds _wonderful_."

"No, not a big group of us."

Sherlock glanced over. "You mean just you and I?"

John nodded.

"Well…. I _suppose_ I can deal with that then," Sherlock grumbled, and John kept himself from smiling only just barely.

"Plus, who said anything about kippers?" John added.

Just then, Mycroft and Greg, the inseparable pair, sat across from them. Mycroft looked especially grumpy this morning, which John took to mean that he hadn't wanted to go to Hogsmeade, but Greg was making him. Or had pleaded with him, or something like that. From the triumphant look on Greg's face, maybe it was even a bribe.

"I'm glad they finally scheduled a trip," said Greg. "Supposedly, we were supposed to go sometime in October, but Honeydukes got robbed. They don't even know how they got in, since the door wasn't tampered with, magically or otherwise, but they were making sure Hogsmeade was safe before letting students go."

It was a damn miracle that John was able to keep from reacting to this story, specifically from laughing his arse off. A Hogsmeade trip got cancelled because John stole a bit of sweets? And here Greg was, telling John about it, not even knowing John had been the one that did it. It was all just too good.

"Who would steal from Honeydukes?" asked John in indignant concern.

"Dunno. Someone with a sweet tooth? But it hardly matters, they've pretty much decided it couldn't have been a student. It's hard to get out of the castle at all, but going all the way to Hogsmeade and back would take hours. They would've been caught."

John actually had to bite his tongue hard not to smile that time. "Yeah, nobody could get away with being away from the castle that long," John agreed.

Especially_ not for three days_, John added mentally.

"Yes," Sherlock piped in, "I agree. Filch does a really splendid job making sure students don't do things like that."

"And I hear Peeves helps too sometimes," John added.

"I think I've heard that also," Sherlock replied.

John noticed Greg looking at them with narrowed eyes for a moment, but then his eyes drifted to the food in front of him and he was distracted from his suspicion.

Judy eventually showed up to the table too, and John asked where Molly was, but she said Molly was at the library.

"Again?" asked Sherlock.

"Yeah," Judy replied. "If I'm telling the truth, I'm a bit worried about her. She's been real quiet. I think something might've happened, but every time I ask, she says she's fine."

Sherlock looked more interested in that that John expected, and he considered that Sherlock thought Molly's change in demeanour as of late was important. He'd have to remember to ask about that sometime.

"Oh," Judy added, "And my mum decided to come with us on this trip," she added distastefully.

John got a sudden twinge of guilt at the mentioning of Mrs Hudson. Years previous, he'd made a point to visit her in her classroom from time to time—since he dropped her class years back, since Muggle Studies was especially boring to a Muggleborn that already understood Muggle life—but he'd been so distracted by Sherlock that he'd forgotten this year. "What's wrong with that? I love your mum," said John.

"Yeah, and I love your mum too, but would you like it if she went to Hogsmeade with us?

John got a horrific picture in his head of his Muggle mum running around the village, gaping at every magical thing in the area and asking any random stranger how it worked.

"Yeah, okay, I see your point," John agreed. "Just stay away from her."

"I intend to," she replied.

Then it was time to leave, and Mycroft and Sherlock had to talk to McGonagall about permission slips. Apparently neither of them had ever bothered to go before, so they'd never turned in a form. McGonagall knew before having it explained to her that Sherlock and Mycroft didn't really have a guardian, since they lived on their own, and she agreed that Mycroft could sign for Sherlock, since he was of age, and that if Mycroft was mature enough to count himself as Sherlock's guardian, then he hardly needed a signature. She then mentioned that allowing them to go when they didn't have a proper guardian signing them off was very generous and that she'd have no qualms taking away the privilege as easily as she'd given it.

The walk to Hogsmeade took a little less than an hour, which John had never thought about before—the walk had never felt long, since he talked to people a lot—but he now remembered it took him double that time to get back when taking the One-Eyed Witch passage, so he wondered if that path was really twisty or if he was just especially tired and walking really slow or something. John felt a little weird leaving the castle grounds with permission for once. For the past few months, they did things against the rules so frequently that doing something they were allowed to for once was odd.

Once they got there, Mycroft and Greg broke off quickly and Judy found Mike Stamford and the two of them disappeared together too. John noticed Mrs Hudson glancing around, probably looking for her daughter, and felt a little bad. He considered, for a moment, going and spending some time with her, but then he looked over to Sherlock and noticed he was already walking away.

"So, what do you usually do here?" asked Sherlock.

"A lot of things, I guess. Though maybe not what other students do."

"What do you mean?"

"There are a lot of places in Hogsmeade that aren't on the High Street. Students never bother to go anywhere else."

"I'm not sure they're strictly supposed to," Sherlock said, a little smile on his face. "I mean, with exceptions like the Shrieking Shack, they probably want people staying on the High Street. I don't think they want students in the residential areas."

"Maybe not," John said, "But I've never gotten in trouble for it before. I'm definitely taking you to see the Shrieking Shack, just because everyone's got to take a look at it."

"Sometime, we'll take a look from the inside. There's a passage on the map in the Room of Requirement that gets you inside."

"Where all the ghosts are? No thank you." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John ignored it and continued, "and there are a few places you might enjoy that I'm taking you to."

"Like where?"

"Oh, you know, places," he replied.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, John, you're being—"

"Don't you say 'silly' or 'ridiculous'," said John. "You do it to me all the time."

"For a specific reason."

"Yes, and I'm doing it for basically the same reason. It builds anticipation."

"Or annoyance," grumbled Sherlock.

"Well, annoyance is basically your constant state of being, so there isn't much I can do about that," replied John. Then, without saying anything else, he began to walk.

* * *

**— A Gift —**

John was dragging Sherlock through the crowded areas of the High Street to get to a store that was usually more vacant. It was called Dominic Maestro's Music Shop, though Dominic died fifteen years ago and the store was taken over by his son. The store supposedly used to have more patronage back when Dominic ran it, as he was well liked and a wonderful musician, but Dominic's son had driven all but the most avid of music lovers from going, because he was strange. Not in a pleasant oh-you're-odd-but-I-like-you-for-it sort of way, but much more in a you're-annoying-and-kind-of-a-dick sort of way. But John was going there for a reason.

They walked inside and, as John had guessed, the place was empty. Well, of people. Otherwise, it was packed with silly things that supposedly were supposed to be instruments, all playing on their own.

"Oh, welcome, welcome!" howled the owner in what John could only guess was the strange man's best gander at an Italian accent. "I am Master Maestro and welcome to my shop!"

Sherlock was quiet as he approached the man, and John followed. "You know that 'Maestro' in Italian means 'master', don't you? Meaning that you're telling people to call you Master Master."

The man twitched his weird mustache at him in irritation as John bit back a chuckle. "What is it that you want, _boy_?" he asked to Sherlock.

"Actually," John piped in, "_I_ ordered something a week back by owl. You said it'd be in by today."

"Oh! You're that one!" said Master Master in recognition, which made John wonder if that meant he hadn't had a single customer in the last week. Did he know it was just because he was annoying? "I don't get why you wanted something so dull. It doesn't even play on its own! As Muggle as Muggle can get." He clicked his tongue disapprovingly as he went into the back, and then he brought out a box with real Muggle postage on it. "This was a bit hard to get to, but since you gave me that Muggle money, it was doable. I will require a payment for my labour, however."

John kept from rolling his eyes and paid the man the ten Galleons and seven Sickles he required for his 'labour'. Then the two walked out before Sherlock could say anything to insult the guy, because John wouldn't even stop him from doing it either.

"You bought something from that abhorrent man?" asked Sherlock objectionably when they were outside.

"He seemed to be the only one who could make it happen," John replied. The he handed the box over to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up in one of his infrequent expressions of actual surprise. "This is for me?" John nodded. Sherlock blinked down at it for a long moment, like he'd never been given a gift before. "Should I open it now?"

"Yeah, go ahead," said John.

Sherlock took a seat right there against the wall outside the Maestro Music shop, so John sat next to him. Sherlock took a moment to look at the box.

"So this is what Muggle post looks like," said Sherlock conversationally.

"You've never seen it?"

"Why would I have?"

"You know about some Muggle things. I thought maybe you'd seen it before."

"Never bothered to research this," Sherlock said. "I'll keep this box to look at later." John rolled his eyes as Sherlock used a severing charm in order to cut the tape open, but did so carefully so he could still read everything. Then he took out the medium-sized black case with a handle and set it on his lap as he put the cardboard box, with some effort, into his magic bag that he always carried around now. He then turned his attention back to the case and opened it.

Inside was a violin. German made more than a hundred and fifty years ago with maple wood varnished an orangey-brown. John picked it because it was the most similar to the one that Sherlock borrowed from the Muggle Music room.

Sherlock looked over to John, his eyes wide and their expression uncharacteristically soft. "John…" Sherlock murmured. "This is…"

John was absolutely positive this was the first time he had seen Sherlock speechless. He looked down at it again, letting his fingers run down the smooth wood.

Then Sherlock looked back over. "John, I can't accept this."

"Sure you can. Consider it an early Christmas gift, if it makes you feel better."

"I can't even imagine how much this cost. I can't—"

"No, you're keeping it," said John. In truth, it hadn't cost John any money he actually needed. Muggle money had become virtually useless to him once he figured out he was a wizard, so funds that his family were saving up to get John to uni someday were used to buy this instrument for Sherlock.

"But… I…" Sherlock sighed. "Thank you. Really. This is brilliant."

"No problem," John replied, and the two smiled to each other for a long while before getting up and walking back towards the busier part of the street.

**— A Legend —**

Sherlock was hugging onto his case still, not putting it into his magical bag. John smiled every time he looked at it. He'd never thought he'd be able to think of a good gift to get Sherlock, but somehow he'd thought of one.

Now John was taking Sherlock to the Shrieking Shack. Just for the sake of seeing it. Plus, he had to tell Sherlock the story, which he was told by Molly, who was told by Stamford, who was told by Taylor, who was told by… you know, the list goes on and on.

They passed a few people that John knew, but he happily ignored them, instead paying attention to frequently glancing at Sherlock for no reason other than the fact that he liked to look at him.

They walked down the narrow path that led to the shack. It looked like a normal house, in some ways. You know, four walls, doors and windows, a roof covered in crisp snow. But then, all the openings were securely boarded up and the garden was overgrown and sad and honestly, the place gave John the creeps even when it was light out. There was just something about it… The damage done on the inside was so severe it was noticeable from the outside, like some parts of the walls looking weak like they'd been beaten half to death from inside. It just seemed like damage like that couldn't be done by something human.

"It's a house," said Sherlock.

"A _haunted_ house," corrected John.

"Come on, John, you actually believe that?"

"Why not? We have ghosts sit with us during dinner, why can't there be ghosts in that house?"

"The Hogwarts ghosts are there with permission. Hauntings, like honest hauntings with spirits that are restlessly upset about their life and kill all who enter, are complete fallacies."

"So does that mean I can't tell you the story?" John asked, giving Sherlock his best pouty-face.

After a moment, Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "Fine, tell the story."

"Okay," said John. "So fifty years ago, there was a couple that went to Hogwarts. The girl was a Slytherin and the boy was a Gryffindor, so it was a big deal that they worked out, since the two Houses have a reputation for hating each other. They were together since their first year and stayed together through all their time there. Everyone talked about how in love they were. Then they both finished their NEWTs and graduated, and then they moved to Hogsmeade, to this house. Then, on their wedding night, the man felt horrible because he had kept something from her the whole time they were together, and he told her the truth: He was a Muggleborn. He thought that she would understand, since they were in love, but she screamed about how she couldn't believe she married a Mudblood and that she'd never get over the shame, leaving the house without even packing her things. He was so heartbroken that he broke all the windows with his bare hands, and then he used one of the glass shards to cut his wrists, hoping to bleed the dirty blood right out of him. He died, of course, and the house was left abandoned. But for years after he did it, on some nights, you could still hear his screams, like his spirit was still inside, hoping he could run all the Muggle blood from his veins."

The story left a ringing silence, which surprised John. He figured Sherlock would laugh, but his face was pensive.

"What, did I scare you?" asked John with a smirk.

He was quiet for another minute, and John had given up on Sherlock speaking, when he did just that. "How could you love someone that much, enough to commit to being with them the rest of your life, and then have them tell you their parents were Muggles and that's enough for you to not love them anymore? How is that possible? How could blood matter that much to anyone?"

John was both a bit relieved and flattered to hear Sherlock say that. At least that meant Sherlock would never decide he cared about John's blood status.

"I don't know," said John. "It doesn't make sense to me either."

"I don't think she really loved him if she could do that."

John smiled a little. "I didn't think you thought much about what it's like to be in love. I didn't think that, you know, mattered to you."

"Not until recently."

They stared silently at the house for another few minutes as John tried to digest those final words from Sherlock before meandering back up the path.

**— A Meal —**

John and Sherlock again walked through the busy street, and this time they were stopped by Greg.

"Have you seen Myc?" he asked.

John sniggered for a moment. "You lost him?"

"He was all upset about coming, and then he saw all the shops and got really excited. Wanted quills and books and things… now I don't even know where he is."

"Well, good luck finding him," said John, walking past him.

They turned off the High Street and walked for a bit, and the streets were mostly vacant by the time they arrived to the shop John wanted. He'd been here several times before, by himself when he needed to get away from all the chaos in the main part of the village.

It was a little Italian place, the only one John had ever heard of in an all-wizard town. The shop owner was from Italy and wanted to bring his culture to British wizards, John supposed.

The place was quiet, not crowded at all. John and Sherlock were seated fairly far from the other patrons. John was glad he'd thought to come here instead of somewhere on the High Street, which was bound to be really crowded.

Sherlock ordered something for himself without even being told, which made John smile at him.

They were silent for a long time, maybe both still thinking about the story John had told at the Shrieking Shack. They ate in silence, and John noticed approvingly that Sherlock ate the whole plate. With gusto, actually, so maybe he just didn't want to admit that he was hungry.

Then, after their plates were cleared and the bill was paid, Sherlock asked, "Why did you decide to give me this?" as he held up the case.

"I just… wanted to get you something."

"You just felt like it?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes."

"But… why?" Sherlock asked again.

John laughed. "I don't know!" he said, half defensively. "When you care about someone, sometimes you get them things."

"Does that mean I should get you things?" asked Sherlock seriously.

John rolled his eyes and chuckled. "No."

"But if that's what people do when they care about someone…"

"It's nice to hear you care about me, but I don't need you to get me things. It's just something you _can_ do. I don't require or expect it."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "You didn't know I care about you?"

"No… well, I know you do. Doesn't mean you frequently show it. And when you do, it's not in the ordinary ways."

Sherlock looked just a little embarrassed. "I don't know how," he finally mumbled quietly, like not knowing something was a crime punishable by death.

John gave a crooked smile. "And that's okay. I don't mind."

Sherlock looked thoughtful again, and John wondered what was going through that brilliant head and whether it had to do with him.

Then Sherlock suddenly stood. "Come on," he said.

John asked, somewhere between startled and entertained, "Where are we going?"

"Dunno yet."

And the two of them walked out.

**— A Surprise —**

Sherlock still looked like he was on a mission.

"What're all your favourite things to do here?" he asked, his voice business-like the way it was when he was solving many of the mini-mysteries around the school.

"You've done most of them."

"You only took me to the places that aren't crowded though," Sherlock said. "Any that are?"

"Well, I like The Three Broomsticks," said John. "Everyone does. I usually go there with all my friends and get a butterbeer."

"Good. Lead the way."

John didn't bother to question Sherlock, since there was no chance in hell he was going to elaborate any further than he already had—which was not at all.

They walked inside and the place was as crowded as it always was.

"Oh, Sherlock, my friends are here," he said, gesturing to the table where Greg, Mycroft, Judy, and Stamford sat.

"Perfect," Sherlock replied. "Let's socialise."

John didn't know whether Sherlock was being really sarcastic or if he'd gone utterly mad, but instead of asking, he just followed Sherlock to the table where their friends sat.

Mycroft looked up and looked at his brother suspiciously.

"You're up to something," he said immediately.

"That's what I'm worried about," said John.

"Oh, I'm not up to anything," said Sherlock casually. "Just wanted to get a butterbeer with my boyfriend."

John looked over to Sherlock with his eyes wide.

"Oh, I've never called you that before, have I?" asked Sherlock innocently. "Oh well."

And then he leaned down and planted a kiss straight to John's stunned lips.

The immediate area had gotten quieter. Even some of the other tables had turned at what they'd noticed in their peripherals.

"Is that displaying my feelings in a traditional way?" asked Sherlock.

John didn't know how to talk. He tried, but it came out a spluttering mess.

"Here, I can help with that," said Sherlock, and he kissed John again, letting it linger for a second or two.

It got even quieter that time. John didn't know how to feel. He imagined it was very much like how Greg had felt when Mycroft took that Enamouring Infusion. Somewhere between embarrassed and pleased, not able to decide which feeling was more pervasive.

Then Greg broke the quiet. "Well, it's about bloody time!"

And even the people John didn't know that well laughed a little, and most people went back to their conversations.

"Am I the only one that didn't see that coming?" asked Stamford.

"Yes," Mycroft, Greg, and Judy all said at once.

But John was just looking at Sherlock, and he didn't know when he had started grinning, but it was nearly hurting now because he was doing it so wide.

Then he and Sherlock sat down at the table, their hands clasped underneath it.


	21. Chapter 21: The Christmas Holidays

John and Sherlock being official luckily didn't get the whole school's attention like Greg and Mycroft had. There wasn't nearly as much shock in the fact that a Holmes was in a relationship, since Mycroft had already done it. And John wasn't Head Boy either.

That's not to say it didn't get any reaction at all, just that not _everyone_ cared like they had with Greg and Mycroft.

Sally and Anderson seemed somehow angry about it, which John found strange. Why did it matter _that_ much? He knew that they didn't like Sherlock, but it's not like John was forcing his company on them. Their friendship was for all intents and purposes over because of Sherlock's presence in his life, so what did it matter if John's relationship with him was platonic or not? It didn't change anything.

There were also some homophobes, of course, but that didn't bother John much. Actually, hardly at all, because it seemed that prejudice in one subject led to it in others, so most of the people who didn't like him now for dating a boy already didn't like him for being Muggleborn. So it's not like he was losing friends over it. And even if he were, people who couldn't handle him being with Sherlock weren't worth his time, so he probably still wouldn't be _that_ broken up about it.

For many people who thought the relationship strange, however, it had had nothing to do with gender, but with Sherlock himself. People had come up to him, during the rare times when Sherlock wasn't around, and asked him how he could date someone like that, or what he saw in Sherlock. Sometimes rudely, but most people seemed honestly curious. He never really knew how to answer them properly—or at least, without being too personal and mushy. He'd usually say something real clever like, "Dunno" or "It just works for some reason". Or, if Sherlock was pissing him off that day, he might say something like, "That's a damn good question" or "I don't know why I even bother". Because them being official didn't change the fact that Sherlock had a tendency to be an insensitive prick sometimes.

John's favourite part of them being together, though, was that he and Sherlock now always slept in the Room of Requirement. Even on the days when John insisted he had too much work or was angry with Sherlock, he'd eventually drag himself to the Room anyway, finding it easier to get rest with Sherlock next to him in the bed that the Room now made every time they went to it.

And now, John would get to sleep by him even in the few weeks where he figured he wouldn't get to.

* * *

John was sitting in the Great Hall on a Saturday morning, feeling especially good. First of all, after this week was winter Holiday, which was a relief. John needed a break from school. And also, Apparition classes were that day for people of age—and he had turned seventeen in July, so he would be attending. He just hoped he passed and really _really_ hoped he didn't splinch himself. That sounded beyond horrible.

Sherlock was next to him, his wand out. He was muttering incoherently, looking at the goblet in front of him that contained orange juice so intently that John thought the juice might begin to boil. Greg and Mycroft were there, as well as Judy. Molly was again absent. John meant to speak to her, asking what was wrong, the moment he saw her… except he never saw her anymore. Judy said she rarely even saw her, and she was Molly's roommate. John was getting worried.

This morning, however, that was not on his mind. Between end-of-school excitement and nerves related to his learning to Apparate today, he couldn't think much about upsetting things.

He paid little attention when the morning post came in until one of the owls landed in front of him, a letter clasped in its beak.

"Wait, for me?" John asked it in confusion as if it might answer. It didn't, of course, so he took the letter from it and it promptly flew away. It's not like his mother never sent him letters or anything, because she did once a month usually, but since he was going home in a week, he thought it was weird that she'd send one now.

He opened it up and the first thing he saw was a picture of his mum. But the weird part was that it was moving, like wizard photos do. She'd smile, and then start to laugh a little. It was on a loop.

Then there was the letter beneath it.

_John: _

_Look at this picture I got! A wizard made it move for me. Isn't it cool? I sent you one because I have twenty copies of it. Moving pictures, John! I still can't get over all this wizard stuff, even after all these years._

Oh, mum. She was such a freak. He read on.

_Well anyway, I wrote you because I just talked to Harry. Don't think you know this, since she decided to do it after you left for school, so unless she sent you a letter, you don't know. She kind of just got up and decided to spend some time in America! Don't ask me why, I still don't know, but I figured she's an adult and can do what she wants. She's even found herself a special someone! She didn't tell me who it was, but she said I'd get to meet them when I visit._

John rolled his eyes. Harry still hadn't told her? See, Harry started doing this wizard pen-pal thing with a girl in America named Clara… and then apparently they became more than pen-pals, and then more than friends eventually too. But John didn't know she decided to _go_ to America. It must have been to spend some actual time with this Clara girl. Did Harry intend to come out to mum just by introducing a girl as her significant other? Smooth as always…

But he kept reading.

_Which comes to the point of the letter. She wants me to go see her for Christmas, and I told her I would. So here are your options. Either you come home and we both go to America to see Harry, or you stay at Hogwarts over the holidays. I don't mind either way, don't feel pressured to come home if you'd rather stay. I know you have good friends at school. But I'd also love to see you. Whatever you'd like to do is fine with me, honey, just reply as soon as you can so I know whether to get you a plane ticket. I love you so much and I hope you're having a good semester. Tell me all about it._

_Much Love: Mum_

John was grinning stupidly at the letter, his morning going from great to fantastic.

John had been disappointed for weeks about going home, because all of his friends would still be at Hogwarts. Greg had never gone home for holidays—and never talked about his family, for that matter, so maybe he didn't get along with his parents—and Molly stayed too because her family spent the month of December in Japan visiting Molly's older brother, who worked there for some Gringotts related job that Molly had never explained. And he'd learned recently, though he probably would have assumed anyway, that Mycroft and Sherlock stay as well, seeing as they had no other family to go see.

And, to make things even better, Sally and Anderson never stayed.

So basically, John was really wishing he could stay, but he wasn't even planning on asking his mother out of fear of hurting her feelings. Sherlock had asked if John could stay, but he'd said there was basically no chance of it and John had hated the fairly well-disguised look of disappointment on his face.

But then came this letter, and somehow a chance to stay was dumped onto his lap.

"Sherlock, looks like I'm staying for the holidays after all."

"What?" Sherlock enquired, not hiding the excitement in his voice well at all.

Instead of explaining, he handed the letter to Sherlock and said, "Last paragraph."

Sherlock read it for less than five seconds, either because he read that fast or because he only needed to read one sentence to understand the gist, and said, "I've got parchment, if you want to write your response now."

John figured that was the closest to enthusiasm he was going to get from Sherlock.

"I'll write it after breakfast," said John. Then they all talked about how cool it would be for them all to be at Hogwarts over the break.

* * *

So the term ended and Hogwarts emptied. John was relieved to have everyone go home. Very few people actually stayed, enough that they could all sit comfortably at a single table in the Great Hall with the professors there too.

The days were lazy, mostly. And Greg seemed to be taking the weeks off of doing any of his responsibilies, because he started bringing Mycroft into the common room.

He came in when all of us Gryffindors were in the common room—since there were only seven of us anyway—and looked a little embarrassed.

"So… I was wondering… how much would you all mind if I brought someone from another house in here? I won't tell them the password, and they won't go up to the dormitories."

John wondered if he would have dared to ask if any of them had been prefects, because then they might have told on him.

But everyone just looked at each other and shrugged.

"Yeah, bring in your boyfriend," said Morgan, which made the others chuckle.

"So does that mean you won't get me in trouble if I bring Sherlock in?" asked John.

Greg shrugged. "Honestly, I'm considering myself on break. Agreed?"

John then whispered into his Harpies pin that Sherlock should come to the common room, but that he should wait for John to come to the door so people didn't know he knew the password.

"Obviously," he snapped back.

So after that, almost all of John's time was spent sitting in the common room with Sherlock, Greg, and Mycroft. Sometimes the other Gryffindors were there, sometimes not, but it was always the four of them. Not that they necessarily always paid attention to each other, but still.

He and Sherlock _could_ have spent time in the Room of Requirement instead, except now that there was no classes and there were a lot less kids around, John knew people would notice if he disappeared for entire days. They still managed to sneak back there each night and sleep, however.

Christmas Eve, the two of them were in bed in the Room of Requirement, Sherlock leaning on his hand and looking down at John. John had been content just staring back for a long time, letting his eyes glaze over his face, his shirtless chest, then back to his face again. Sherlock's fingers were idly grazing up and down John's torso, almost like he wasn't paying attention as he did it, but just that amount of contact left John tingling and overly aware… and, admittedly, a bit aroused.

"So, Christmas is tomorrow," said Sherlock.

"Yeah…" John said with a chuckle.

"A time for gift giving," Sherlock specified.

John rolled his eyes. "We already discussed this at Hogsmeade, didn't we? You don't have to get me anything."

"Oh, no, I already got you something."

John looked up to Sherlock in surprise. "You did?"

"I've been working on it ever since Hogsmeade," Sherlock confirmed. "And you better not be getting me anything else," Sherlock added.

"I'm not," John replied. "I told you, that was an early Christmas gift."

Sherlock smiled. "Good," he said triumphantly.

"But, really, you got me something?"

"You're so shocked."

"Well, yeah. It's not really like you."

John wondered what Sherlock would even think to get him. What did he think John wanted? In fact, what did John want from Sherlock? He couldn't think of any material thing he could get from Sherlock that would mean much to him, just because Sherlock himself didn't care about the material, so would it just feel forced? But Sherlock seemed pretty proud of himself, so maybe he'd used his superiour intellect to know what John wanted before John knew himself.

* * *

When John was shaken awake, he knew already that it was really early, because he still felt groggy.

"Whaddahyawant?" he muttered at Sherlock, swatting at him. "Lemmegobacktasleep. Goaway."

"Happy Christmas, John."

"Yeah, you too," he murmured, cuddling into his pillow.

"People will notice if we're gone this morning. We need to go to the common room."

John opened his eyes. "Oh. Right."

He stood up and they both put their pyjama shirts back on, and then Sherlock half dragged him to the Gryffindor common room. Then he plopped down on the chair and tried to fall back asleep, but the walk through the castle woke him up enough that he couldn't.

"Damn you," he said to Sherlock as he sat up.

"Hey, it's not my fault Lestrade is bound to get up early today."

"Early, sure. But it's not even seven yet. There's no way—"

"Good, you're already up!" called Greg from the steps, grinning down at them. "Happy Christmas!"

"You too," said John, glaring at Sherlock, who was smirking in a I-told-you-so-why-do-you-ever-deny-my-brilliance sort of way. John then glanced over to his little pile of presents that he left by the fireplace so he'd have them in the morning and noticed two more things there. Sherlock's violin, first of all, which maybe Sherlock left there so he could show it off, or maybe he wanted to play something. Then there was a very little package wrapped in brown paper with a red and gold bow. There was writing on the paper and John desperately wanted to read it.

"Mycroft will be here soon," Greg said, adding his gifts to John's pile of presents and pulling up one of the softer chairs from across the room and sitting in it lightly, almost bouncing. John knew Greg liked Christmas, but he'd never noticed him being quite this energetic about it. Then again, John had never actually been there on Christmas, only ever heard him talk about it like it was the greatest day in the world. His spry disposition was actually making John feel a little more excited too. His tiredness was seeping away, leaving him almost bouncing too, wanting to open that stupid gift.

Mycroft arrived, in his full robes already when the other three were still in their pyjamas.

"You look _sharp_," said Sherlock dryly.

Mycroft twitched his lip at Sherlock the way he always did when he said something like that, flicking up his eyebrow as if daring him to continue.

"I make a point of it," Mycroft replied.

"Okay, girls, can we not this morning?" asked Greg. "Come on, it's Christmas! Can't you two lay off each other, just for today?"

They glared at one another, as if deciding whether that were possible. Then Mycroft pulled three things out of his cloak, all wrapped nicely, and put them on the pile.

"You got _me_ something?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft smirked. "I did."

"Well, forgive me, I didn't return the favour," Sherlock replied aloofly.

"You're basically incapable of gift-giving, so I'm not surprised," he responded, sitting down next to Greg.

"He got me something," said John when Sherlock didn't jump to defend himself.

Mycroft looked interested. "Did he? Is it a bloody limb?"

"Don't think a limb could fit in the package," said John, but he was guessing in his head as much as Mycroft was. What the hell would Sherlock get him? And the size of the package narrowed it down… but honestly, he couldn't think of what Sherlock would buy for him.

At that, Greg got up and started passing things to the correct people.

Greg mentioned that he told Molly she could meet them in the Gryffindor common room for presents in the morning, but that she refused his invitation. John was almost glad, because he hadn't thought to get her anything since she'd been so non-existent lately. He literally hadn't even seen her in over a month. She'd been acting strangely for longer than that, but before she was at least around. He was starting to wonder if maybe she was avoiding him specifically. Or maybe Sherlock. She did have a bit of a crush on him. Maybe he'd done something mean to her? Wouldn't be surprising. He'd figure she was angry they were together except she was avoiding them—if she _was_ avoiding them, that is—far before that. He'd have to talk to Sherlock about it sometime.

John and Sherlock both had three presents in front of them and Greg and Mycroft had two.

"So, can we just open it then?" asked John.

"No, we gotta do them one at a time so we can watch each other," said Greg.

Everyone else groaned, and Mycroft was the one who tried to reason with him. "Gregory, what if we all open them together and then show each other everything we open?"

Greg looked annoyed for a moment, but then sighed. "Oh, _fine_."

So John dug into his gifts. First was the one from Greg, which was a bag of Pumpkin Pasties, Bertie Bott's, Fizzing Whizzbees, and Chocolate Frogs. On bag was a note.

_If you get a Cliodna or a Granger, I'm taking it from you. Otherwise, Happy Christmas, John. - Greg_

He rolled his eyes at Greg, throwing a wad of wrapping paper at his face as he opened John's present to him, which was just a bag of Chocolate Frogs. The two had a very deep relationship, as you can tell. A sweets exchange.

"If there isn't a Cliodna or a Granger in this batch, I'll bloody kill someone," said Greg.

While he looked over there, he saw Mycroft opening his, which had Cauldron Cakes in it. John remembered Mycroft's grudging affinity for cake and decided that would work. He stared at them with wide, shining eyes, then glared over at John, who smiled innocently.

John moved onto the present from Mycroft. He was surprised he got anything at all from Mycroft, actually. He hadn't expected it. What would Mycroft ever get him?

John opened up the package, which was even smaller than Sherlock's and wrapped like it was a strange shape, and found a pin inside featuring the Chudley Cannons.

"I know Sherlock's done some charm on the Harpies pin you keep inside your robe," Mycroft clarified, "so I figured you wanted one that actually had your team on it so you'd stop hiding it. Sherlock can charm it with whatever you two use to communicate."

John actually thought it was fairly thoughtful—though it creeped him out a little that Mycroft noticed that John wore a pin that wasn't even visible. John was afraid that Sherlock might not want to cast the spell on this new pin to replace the new one just because Mycroft gave him the pin, but he hoped he could convince him.

Then John moved to the last gift. The one from Sherlock. He'd saved it for last on purpose, either for the anticipation or because he was weirdly nervous about it. Why was he _nervous_? It's not like the gift would light on fire or…

Oh wait.

Sherlock really would do something like that.

John realised quite suddenly why he was nervous.

He read the words on the paper first.

_To the only one worth getting a gift for. - S_

John smiled down at the note, feeling his apprehension that the gift might be dangerous seeping away a bit.

He held it in his hands for a short moment, noting the size and weight, before opening it up. Inside was a soft leather book with no label. John looked at it with his brows knitted together. As he looked at it, he realised he'd seen it before… he wasn't sure where at first, but as he looked at it for another second he knew he'd seen Sherlock carrying it around several times recently. But what was it?

He opened the book to the first page and immediately recognised Sherlock's handwriting again, the hurried scrawl that still somehow portrayed the grace of the man who wrote it. It was fairly small—as the pages themselves were small—so John had to squint to read it, but it was legible.

_My Dear John, _

_I know I'm not gifted at displaying my emotions. Of the many skills I've managed to acquire over the years, this is not one of the ones I honed… mostly from lack of experience rather than lack of ability, however. You quite graciously accept that I don't function the way the average person does, and I do appreciate that, but it's come to my attention that I should also be understanding of the fact that you aren't like the other people in my life either, and thus I cannot treat you as such. You deserve better than that. _

_So you've told me many a time that you wish you knew what went through my head. You ask what I'm thinking and I often respond that you wouldn't understand it, or I don't bother to reply at all. I know how much you hate that, so my gift to you is this journal. For the past several weeks – since we went to Hogsmeade together – I have used this journal to write down most things that go through my head as they go through it. I could not fit everything, of course, as I could not write every moment of the day (you would have noticed that) and because of the fact all my thoughts for even three or four days wouldn't fit in a journal this size. _

_I hope this doesn't seem pretentious or inane to you, as it somewhat does to me, but it occurs to me that you really like to know what I think at all times, even the less brilliant things. That doesn't make sense to me sometimes, until I realise that I also like to know what you think – all the things, even the dull ones or the stupid ones, which still almost doesn't make sense to me. My head is almost unrecognisable since I met you. You just… matter, more than anything. Everything else in my brain bows out of the way to make room for you and I don't even mind._

_Anyway, I've managed to ramble on for almost three pages now, so probably I should end this opening letter now. But this is me trying to display my feelings in the traditional way again, and I hope you enjoy it, because I still feel this is silly of me to do, and this is one time that I would like to be proved wrong. _

_Love, _

_Sherlock_

John felt like an utter idiot when he finished reading the note, because his eyes were burning like he might actually cry. God, he was such a baby! He rubbed his fingers over his eyes as nonchalantly as he could manage, so maybe they might think he was rubbing the sleep from them or something… but then again, two of the people in his company were Holmeses. It was unlikely they were fooled.

"Sherlock," John said, flushing red when his voice cracked. He cleared his throat before saying, "Thank you." Because what else _was_ there to say?

Sherlock smiled at him, one of the rare smiles that was neither patronising nor sarcastic. "You're welcome," he replied quietly. He glanced over to Greg and Mycroft, who were looking at him silently, strange looks on their faces.

Then Mycroft spoke. "The fact that my brother wrote something that managed to move you to tears is simply baffling to me."

John rolled his eyes, rubbing them once more to make sure there were no tears there.

From his other side, Sherlock's hand rested on his knee, and John looked back over. His eyes were soft, different than John had ever seen them.

"I meant all that, you know."

John swallowed down more emotions that were trying to create embarrassing physical reactions. "I know you do," he replied.


	22. Adventure 8: The Prefects' Bathroom

**Welcome to the smut chapter. If you don't like smut, there's no actual plot in this chapter, so you can skip it without missing anything. If you do like smut, then here you go, it's extra long for you. No pun intended.**

* * *

Christmas day was spent as lazily as the other days had been, really. John convinced Sherlock to do the communication enchantment on the Cannons pin so John didn't have to wear the Harpies one anymore. Then Sherlock had a brilliant idea: he told Mycroft and Greg that they were going to spend the day outside. They thought it weird—since it was freezing out—and Mycroft looked suspicious, but they were able to leave and the two immediately went back to the Room of Requirement.

The first thing Sherlock did when they entered was pluck the journal from his hands and toss it onto the table with the food.

"Hey, I was going to read that," John complained.

"You have plenty of time for that. Today, I have other plans."

"But _Sherlock_—"

"You'll like my plan," Sherlock asserted.

"I doubt that. I'm just really feeling—"

And right about there was when Sherlock shoved John up against the wall and kissed him, hot and insistent.

John didn't react at first out of surprise, but then he returned the same enthusiasm, taking a fistful of Sherlock's dark curls in his hand and pressing him as close to his body as he could get.

John never thought he'd actually enjoy the feeling of kissing someone so much taller than him, but somehow, he did. Maybe the fact that he still didn't feel small next to him, because he was much bulkier. Maybe he liked that there was more to grab onto. Or maybe he just liked that he had to yank Sherlock's head downwards for their lips to touch, and it was about the only way he could be forceful with Sherlock without him complaining about it.

John had never felt Sherlock so demanding against him. They'd kissed before, had a snogging session or two, but this felt different immediately… Like Sherlock had no intention of stopping at kissing.

And just as John was thinking that, Sherlock broke off the kiss. They were both already panting, and John couldn't figure out why seeing Sherlock that way was so satisfying. His eyes were bright with arousal, but with something else too… like what he looked like when he got an idea.

"Actually, you're right. Bad idea," he said, backing away.

"No, I take it back," John said, grabbing for Sherlock's wrist to pull him back over, but Sherlock was already out of arm's reach.

"No, you're absolutely right. Actually, I think tonight is a good night for an adventure."

"An adventure? Oh Sherlock, come on, I'm sorry I said I wouldn't like your plan, I take it back, now get back here."

"No. Not now. Too much to do," said Sherlock, going over to one of the chairs by the fire and sitting down, his face instantly pensive, like his mind was now somewhere else completely.

Damn it. How had he managed to ruin that so royally? He sighed and went over to the table to grab the journal.

* * *

John fully intended to read it. He really did. But Sherlock's quick, intense snog session had been enough to get him completely flustered, his brain going every which way and making it impossible to concentrate. He read the first sentence more than twenty times before giving up and just sitting there, staring at Sherlock. He'd spent a while just thinking, but now he was flitting around the room, looking through books and waving his wand at random times to do spells or looking at the maps on the wall. He kept writing things down.

Then, after hours of silence, John got too curious. "Sherlock, what kind of adventure is this that you have to plan so much?"

It took Sherlock a moment to notice he'd spoken, but then he looked over with one eyebrow up. "None of this is for the adventure. This is homework. We just need to wait until late before we can leave." He checked his watch. "Actually, right around now will do."

John glared at Sherlock as the two got up and prepared to leave.

"Where're we going?" John asked with a sigh.

"You'll see."

He groaned loudly. "Sherlock—"

"John, I'm not telling, so you'll just have to wait."

John grumbled for the few minutes it took for Sherlock to get ready, at which time he pulled on the jumper his mum had sent him in the mail—with a note that said _"got this for you in America. They call them sweaters there! Love you, mum_"—which he'd gotten from Harry's owl when they went down to breakfast earlier that day. They basically were never allowed to wear their Muggle clothes, but he imagined they wouldn't mind over the holidays, so he risked putting it on. He really liked jumpers like this anyhow. It was warmer than the uniform.

Then Sherlock dragged him from the room and they started towards whatever their destination was. John had stopped getting so nervous when they left in the middle of the night ages ago, and that fear went from diminished to gone entirely since it was the holidays and Filch didn't really patrol much during the break.

And because of this, John wasn't at all prepared when they rounded the corner and actually ran into two other people. He had a moment of panic…

Before he realised it was Greg and Mycroft. They were in their robes, and strangely enough their hair was soaking wet. They looked embarrassed.

"Oh, hey," Greg muttered.

"You snuck out? _You_?" was all John could think to say.

"Hey, I told you, I'm on break. But I figured you two wandered around at night. I've gone to look for you more than once at night and never found you."

"Oh," John muttered, never considering that Greg had noticed his absence in the dormitories at night.

"Where are you two even going?" asked Greg.

"We'll tell you the moment you tell us where you've just been," inserted Sherlock.

Greg was quiet for a moment. "Okay, so we both agree not to ask."

"Agreed."

They walked around each other and John glanced back before they had rounded the corner and the other pair were gone.

"That was weird," said John.

"Looks like they came from just the place we're going," said Sherlock.

"Really?" John muttered. Well where the hell were they going then?

"Here," Sherlock said, as if he'd heard John ask. There was a door in front of them, but John didn't recongise what room it was.

"Pine Fresh," said Sherlock to the door, which opened a crack so that they could go in. "The password was on our map in the Room of Requirement, of course, but I read somewhere that they haven't changed the password since Hogwarts was built. It's like they're asking people to break in."

John was getting really tired of all the vagueness. "Break into whe—" John began, before Sherlock dragged him inside and John could tell quite clearly where he was.

Everything in the room was gold knobs and white marble, brighter than a lot of the castle was. Above his head, a huge chandelier hung, which was the light source that made it so bright. There were a line of toilets on one side of the room, but then the dominant item that took up most of the room was a… well, John didn't know what to call it. It was like a swimming pool, complete with diving board, but around the rim of it there were dozens of faucets.

"That's supposed to be… a bath tub," said John.

"Larger than average, but yes," Sherlock confirmed.

He'd heard some of his friends talk about this, specifically the ones who were prefects.

"This is the prefects' bathroom," said John.

"It is," Sherlock agreed.

John nodded in approval. "This is nice. Maybe I should've been a prefect myself."

"Quidditch captains can use it as well," said Sherlock. "So make captain next year and you can use it all the time."

John chuckled. "That's unlikely. Plus, who needs permission when they've got you around?"

"Quite true." Sherlock walked further into the room, his hands behind his back.

That was the first time John noticed that Sherlock, just barely, was shaking.

John came forward immediately, coming in front of him and taking his face. "Hey, Sherlock, are you alright? Is something wrong?"

Sherlock looked down at him and John didn't understand the look on his face originally, because it was so seldom an expression that Sherlock donned.

He looked nervous.

"What, do you think we'll get caught?" asked John. "We can go. We've seen it. We snuck in. Adventure finished."

Sherlock didn't respond for a long moment, and John saw his Adam's apple twitch in a harsh swallow.

"Come on," John said, taking Sherlock's hand. "Let's go."

"No," Sherlock finally choked out. "No. I… I brought us here for something specific," he said.

"That doesn't matter if you're… you know, not feeling well or whatever," said John, careful not to say that Sherlock looked scared, because he wouldn't respond well to that.

"I'm feeling fine," said Sherlock. "Actually," he added before John could speak. "I feel good, John."

"Then why the hell are you shaking?" asked John quietly, getting more worried by the moment.

Sherlock put his hands on both of John's arms, squeezing them reassuringly—though which of them he was trying to reassure, John didn't know. Maybe both. Then his hand slid up to John's face, and then the other. John was surprised by how quickly his heart started to race and how his breathing went ragged. Sherlock didn't often touch him this way, tender and sensual.

"John," Sherlock said carefully. "I brought us here for a reason."

"You—erm… you already t—told me that," John stammered, losing his focus because Sherlock's hands on his face were amazingly distracting.

"It's not something we _need_ to do, per se… but something I _want_ to do," Sherlock continued.

John felt slower than usual, and thought maybe he should've understood what Sherlock meant. But he didn't, so he just said, "Oh… er—erm… o—okay…"

"The thing we are to accomplish in this room…" said Sherlock, "is to take a bath."

John wasn't stupid enough to mention that they didn't have swim trunks, because now he knew exactly what they were doing here, and what had Sherlock so nervous. Whether it was fear of rejection of fear of the act itself, John wasn't entirely sure, but he wouldn't let Sherlock be this scared, not if there was something he could do about it.

So John rested his hands on Sherlock's, which were still on his face, and moved them away gently. Before Sherlock could take it as rejection, he placed his own hands on Sherlock's face, running his thumbs over the sharp cheekbones.

He got on his toes and put one, soft kiss on Sherlock's lips. Then he backed away just a little, so he was still close enough to see the single brown speck in on of Sherlock's blue eyes. "I'll only ask this once, then I swear I won't again," said John quietly, his voice rougher than he intended, but still gentle. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment, just staring down at John with his eyes too wide, before he nodded. "I'm sure," he confirmed aloud. John stood there for another moment, making sure Sherlock was sincere. When all he could feel between them was carnal attraction crackling between them like electricity, he decided he believed Sherlock.

At that John went to the door and bolted it, and performed the Imperturbable charm Sherlock had taught him on it… just in case.

He turned back around and Sherlock had gotten closer to the tub. "See, I knew Greg and Mycroft had been here," said Sherlock, running his fingers inside the tub—though John hesitated to call something that size a bathtub—and bringing them up again. "The tub's still wet."

Then he turned again and met John's eyes. Now John himself was nervous too. Admittedly, this wasn't his first time… but it was his first time with someone that wasn't a girl. So really, he had very little clue of what he was doing, which put he and Sherlock in basically the same boat.

They'd take it slow. No need to rush. They had all night. It's not like John felt even remotely tired, not anymore.

So John walked over to the taps around the tub/pool and tried to use his deductive skills he'd learned from Sherlock. They were all still dripping from the recent use. Greg and Mycroft, who both have been able to use this bathroom for years, must have known how this tub works, which implied that you turned all of the taps on, not just the few you wanted. So he went around turning them all by hand, realising only when he was done that he could've done it with his wand and taken far less time and effort. Oh well.

The tub filled quite quickly, considering how huge it was, with different coloured liquids, the smell of them all together both relaxing and mentally stimulating at the same time. John again turned the taps off, this time with magic.

He turned and saw Sherlock was watching him do all this keenly, like it had been interesting or something. He remembered the letter from that morning. He liked to know the things John thought, even if they were dull or stupid. Did that apply to his actions too?

John continued to stare at him, at that concentrated look on his face, and with the smells in the room and the steam that was building up from the hot water, John was getting less than appropriate mental pictures of what exactly he and Sherlock might be doing soon. Sherlock's creamy pale skin, completely exposed for the first time, dripping and shining with the scented water. His curls caked onto his forehead, nearly falling into the pale eyes. His hot mouth as John invaded it… and other places that were bound to be hot too.

Before long, they were still just staring, but John could feel himself getting hard. Sherlock noticed, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he smirked.

"Getting excited?"

"Just get over here and kiss me, you git," John said, and Sherlock obeyed, taking a couple long steps before crashing their bodies together, and seeming to continue the kissing where it'd left off in the Room of Requirement so many hours before.

Even with both of them confused, inexperienced, and apprehensive, the natural progression during these situations took place. In some ways, John didn't have to really think about it. The deeper the kiss got, the harder they gripped each other, the more he could feel both their erections between them, the less his brain was really doing the work at all. His body knew when and where to grab. It knew when it was time to throw Sherlock's robe aside and start peeling off his uniform. It wasn't too long before they were both in only their trousers, John pressed against the cool marble wall.

That was when Sherlock's teeth caught on John's lip, causing his fingers to dig into Sherlock's back as he let out a groan. He opened his eyes and saw Sherlock looking down at him mischievously, obviously proud of the first real moan he'd gotten out of John.

And a moment later, his fingers started working at John's trousers, getting the button and the zip and pushing them down to reveal his pants.

Which John had totally forgotten were red today.

Sherlock gaped at them for a long moment, and John didn't have time to feel embarrassed before he saw Sherlock was grinning at them.

"I like these," he said.

"I was feeling festive. You know, Christmas."

"Well, Happy Christmas," said Sherlock, and without further ado he got down on his knees in front of John, pulling out John's erection right there. It seemed the mixture of John's moan and the red pants had increased Sherlock's confidence back to its usual self, with how bold he was suddenly being. John gasped loudly and grasped at the first thing his fingers could find, which happened to be the hair at the top of Sherlock's head. And then Sherlock's mouth engulfed him, and John's fingers tightened on the hair in his hands and he shuddered, leaning his head back against the wall and shutting his eyes.

Sherlock displayed that these skills were just as easy for him to learn as most everything else was for him. It was almost hard to believe he'd never done this before, except that Sherlock was exceptional at almost everything he did, so it wasn't really a surprise to John. Sherlock worked his mouth over John's prick, dipping his tongue into the slit of the head and just barely grazing his teeth against it, things John had never experienced but liked immensely. He did one or two things John didn't enjoy quite as much, but John couldn't well expect Sherlock to be perfect on his first time, now could he? As Sherlock did this, he also shoved his trousers down his thighs so they fell to the floor, pooling around his ankles, and he grabbed John's leg hard with one hand as the other helped his mouth.

After a few minutes of that, though, John tugged at Sherlock's hair and he obediently uncurled from the ground, meeting John's mouth once again. John spent this time easing off Sherlock's trousers too so the boys now stood with their pants on, John's penis hanging out over the elastic. And John hooked his own fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's pants…

There was a pause—barely conceivable, but there—where Sherlock looked at John with some of that fear in his eyes mingled in there with the excitement. Maybe Sherlock hadn't meant for him to notice, but he did. So he planted a sweeter, gentler kiss to his lips. Then he just barely backed away, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's, and whispered, "It's okay." He didn't ask if Sherlock was sure again, because he said he wouldn't, but he still asked something similar with his eyes anyhow, just to be sure.

After a moment of hard breathing, and after another thick swallow, Sherlock nodded. John then leaned down slowly, took the top of his pants in both hands, and eased them down, looking at only them even as he saw Sherlock's prick pop out when it got down to his thighs. He let them fall down to where his trousers sat and Sherlock stepped out of them, leaving himself completely revealed.

Only then did John look up.

He'd said it enough times, but he felt himself needing to say it again. Sherlock was a work of art. The supple lines of his pale body were tantalising, testing John's self-control every moment he looked at them. John had never gone around dick-browsing, and thus didn't know what the proper size was, but he seemed rather well endowed, in John's humble opinion. The same as himself, anyway, and he liked to think he wasn't small. He'd been told he wasn't, but girls knew to lie about that kind of thing, didn't they? It's like if a girl asks if these jeans make their arse look big. Always say no. If a guy asks if their dick is small, same answer.

These things all rolled through John's head in hardly a second, because then John's control shattered and John quickly stood and grabbed Sherlock's face and roughly pulled him forward in a kiss, clawing at the smooth skin of his back, letting it run down to his arse.

Then John looked over to the still steaming pool to his right, then back to Sherlock, who immediately walked over to the edge to ease himself in while John removed his pants and tossed them onto the floor with the rest of his abandoned clothes.

John turned and Sherlock had apparently dunked his head under the water, because now his hair was plastered to his head in just the way John had imagined earlier.

John got in too, and the hot water and the steam only worked to make him more sensitive, and maybe even a little dizzy, which heightened the feeling of arousal that was already more intense than he'd probably ever felt in his life.

Then John went over to Sherlock, but the pool seemed to get deeper towards that end and suddenly he couldn't stand anymore without his face being underwater. Sherlock was still a metre away.

"You did that on purpose," John accused.

Sherlock smirked. "It's not my fault you're so short."

"Well if I'm so unsatisfactory, I can just go," he threatened.

Sherlock's tongue peeked out between his lips, licking them and making them shine, mesmerising John for a moment. "Oh, no, don't do that," he said in a voice as low as a bass. He walked forward and grabbed him, and they kissed again for a moment, until John noticed something at the edge of the pool that he hadn't before. A little bottle that must have been lube and a few condoms.

Wow. This was really happening. He took a deep breath as he looked at them, and a silent question hung in the air between them. Who's arse was about to get stretched?

It was Sherlock who walked over to the side of the pool that was shallow and rested his stomach on the edge, leaving his arse in the air for John. John nodded. He was honestly more comfortable that way.

He went over and grabbed the bottle, relieved that he knew what to do with it, considering his lack of experience in male-male fucking. The lube was cold on his hands, especially in comparison to the hot air around him, and he slathered it on generously before sticking one into Sherlock. He shuddered, either from the cold or from the sensation, or maybe both.

John worked his fingers in Sherlock for a while, unsure of how long it actually needed to be done, but he sure as hell didn't want to do it for too short. Plus, it's not like Sherlock wasn't enjoying it. He was keeping quiet, mostly, but sometimes he'd jerk at one of John's prods, or make a strangled gasp. And it was _hot_. Even though John wasn't the one being played with, just watching Sherlock's reactions was enough to make his desire to be inside Sherlock go from mild to persistent to irresistible. John definitely noticed that the height of the pool on this shallow side was at the perfect level for John to fuck him right there.

Finally, even John was panting, and he couldn't wait any longer. He used another generous amount of lube on his now-sheathed cock before plunging inside with no warning whatsoever.

Sherlock yelled out, gripping the edge of the pool until his fingers turned white and heaving in air like he just came up from drowning. John froze, hoping to god he hadn't gone too far and hurt—

"I'm fine. _Move_," Sherlock demanded in a gravelly voice, and John didn't need any more invitation than that.

He started the tempo out steady and slow, because honestly he hadn't had sex in a while and he didn't know if he'd last long, especially considering how _good_ this felt. He let his hands run down Sherlock's back, savouring how smooth he was, as he went in and out with torturing leisure.

It was a little while longer before Sherlock got bossy again. "Faster, John."

John kept going at the same pace with a smirk on his lips.

"Please," Sherlock added in a whimper, and it surprised and pleased him to hear it so much that he obeyed.

He picked up the pace and as he did, the gentle fingers on Sherlock's skin became claws, gripping him hard. "_Fuck_, Sherlock," he growled.

Seeming to take the words as encouragement, Sherlock started rocking his own body back to meet John's, making the thrusts deeper. After not too long of that, John was sweating from the heat of the room and his need to release that he was fighting. Every breath came out as half a moan.

John knew he wasn't going to last very much longer, so he did two things. He picked up speed again, and he took Sherlock's cock in his hands, trying to beat it in time with is thrusts. As he'd never done it before, he was sure he didn't do that great…

Other than the fact that Sherlock was making some frankly tantalising noises now, groaning loudly enough that John was _really_ glad he'd done that spell on the door. He could feel Sherlock quaking beneath him, and he went still faster.

After that, it came quick. It felt like a white hot explosion deep in John's abdomen, and he was left pulsing as he pulled out and plucked the condom off.

Problem was, Sherlock wasn't finished yet.

John roughly turned him around, taking a short moment to appreciate the stunned, lost look on his face, and ducked down a bit further into the water so he could take Sherlock's dick into his mouth. The feeling wasn't completely uncomfortable, but he'd definitely have to get used to it. He'd never done this before, of course, but he'd had enough blowjobs in his life to know what he liked, so he just tried to remember exactly what those things were so he could do them himself. Sherlock was simply mewling, and it was making John feel much more pleased with himself than he expected. He considered reaching around and fingering him at the same time, but decided he better wait to try that when he had a little more experience. Sherlock's fingers ghosted against the top of his head, but didn't roughly grab the way John tended to until a minute or two later.

"John—J—John—I'm gonna—"

John knew exactly what _that_ meant, and at the last second, he pulled it out and worked his hand on it fast, and Sherlock released onto his chest with a wordless shout. John could've swallowed it, probably, but he'd heard from enough girls how bad it tasted that he decided he didn't want to at the last moment.

Sherlock's fingers were digging into his shoulders as he tried to steady himself, his breathing coming out as groans.

John was looking up at him from the water as he absently wiped off the cum. It took Sherlock a minute to open his eyes and meet John's gaze.

"Holy fuck," he finally said, and it was a little jarring, because Sherlock didn't curse often—he was too busy having perfect vocabulary for that.

John responded with a grin, standing up again now that his chest was clean. He had a lot of jokes he wanted to make, wanted to tease Sherlock relentlessly… but instead he found himself wrapping his arms around Sherlock and pressing his face to his chest. Sherlock's arms came up and did the same after a moment and he rested his face on the top of John's head. He kept his eyes closed, just loving the feel of Sherlock completely against him. The sex was good, of course, but being close to Sherlock like this, with him totally open for once, was almost better.

"So," John said after a while. "Did I make you lose your head? Forget everything you ever thought?"

Sherlock gave a low chuckle. "Not this time, sorry… But I don't doubt you're capable anymore."

John grinned. "That's what I thought."


	23. Chapter 23: The Kissing Confessionals

The end of the holidays was fast approaching after Christmas, so John and Sherlock wasted no time in sneaking off as often as possible to fuck. John hadn't realised how bad of a habit he had started that night in the Prefects' bathroom, but Sherlock, it turned out, was the type that got addicted to things easily. Soon, his desire was nearly insatiable. John couldn't keep up.

They were in the Room of Requirement on New Year's Eve, the night before everyone came back to Hogwarts. Sherlock had that look on his face again.

"Sherlock, I can't," said John. "You somehow have the energy of a seven year old even in your teens, but I don't."

"Oh, you poor old man," Sherlock teased.

"I know!" John replied. "I'm already an adult, you know."

"Some people might think you're taking advantage of me," replied Sherlock with a smirk.

"When it's quite the other way around!"

After a moment, they both laughed and Sherlock lay down on John's chest. "I just know it won't happen as often when everyone gets back and school starts."

John let his arms go around Sherlock. "It's not like I'm going anywhere," said John.

Sherlock was silent for a long time, and John was dozing off.

"John?" Sherlock said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah. You okay?" It was a silly thing to ask Sherlock, but when John heard someone's voice like that, he usually assumed something was wrong.

"There's just… there's something I never told you. Or anyone. In fact, usually I don't remember it happened either, since I can sometimes force myself to forget things…"

"Sherlock, what is it? You can tell me."

Sherlock sighed and was quiet for another minute. Then he said, "That wasn't my first time."

"Wai—huh?" John asked.

Sherlock grumbled for a moment at having to clarify, but then said, "In the Prefects' bathroom. That wasn't my first time."

"I—oh," was all John could think to say at first. Sherlock had slept with someone before? Sherlock had never said that he hadn't before, but John had always just assumed…

"She graduated last year. She was a Slytherin."

John was a little sheepish. "Oh, you mean Irene?"

Sherlock looked up at him, confused, for only a moment before he understood. "Mycroft told you," he muttered.

"He figured I had a right to know and said there was no way you'd tell me yourself."

"Shows how much he knows." Sherlock was quiet again for another minute before he continued his story. "It was all an experiment, mostly. I had done most of the things Hogwarts had to offer, but I'd never gotten to know a person. I chose her because she was the one who approached me first. We spent time together, usually in the dead of night. It wasn't long before we made out each time, but I'd never really gotten any enjoyment out of it. My body responded as if it were aroused, sure, but I was usually thinking about something else entirely as it happened, or documenting mentally both of our reactions. That was why I was surprised when it was so pleasurable with you, because it never was with her. I thought maybe kissing was always like that. But one night, the kissing went farther and we had sex. Then afterwards, she asked me all these strange questions, then about the Room of Requirement… and when I didn't know where it was, she never spoke to me again. She avoided me in the halls. I confronted her by calculating where I could best trap her, and she laughed at me because she couldn't believe I was fooled into thinking she had feelings for me." It was quiet again for a moment, but John couldn't think of anything to say before Sherlock continued, "It's not like I was heartbroken. I wasn't that interested in her, I really wasn't. But the feeling of rejection was nonetheless still there. So part of me felt like after we slept together you'd suddenly disappear because you had gotten what you wanted out of me."

John was silent for a full minute before he said, "You don't honestly believe I'd do that to you, do you?"

"No, not really," said Sherlock. "It's just human instinct, I suppose, to feel that way. Even I can't avoid petty jealousy and self-consciousness at times."

"Because I'm never leaving you, not if I have anything to say about it. Honestly, I'm the one who should be worried, because you get bored so damn easily."

"You never bore me," said Sherlock. "I've told you that."

"I know, I just meant that you have nothing to worry about."

"I know that. I just thought you should know. Plus, I'll probably force myself to forget it all again by tomorrow, so someone should probably know." John nodded in response. "But don't you dare tell Mycroft," Sherlock added. "He's been convinced something like that happened ever since, but I don't want to prove him right."

John nodded. He'd hate to prove Mycroft right. He was pompous enough as it is.

"So I've confessed my sins," said Sherlock sardonically. "What about you?"

"Who've I slept with?"

"Or kissed, or whatever."

"Oh come on, you don't care."

"Of course I care. Anything to better understand you."

"Well… Me and Molly had a bit of a thing fourth year for like a week. We mostly held hands and stuff, but then we kissed and it was actually really weird. Like kissing my sister. We agreed never to speak of it again. Then there was one time when the Gryffindors were playing Spin the Bottle, because a Muggleborn brought it in and told everyone else that they had to try it. Someone eventually enchanted the bottle to spin really fast and sing stupid songs, because Muggle games are always too boring for wizards. That night I kissed five girls or something. Oh, and Greg."

"You kissed _Lestrade_?"

"Yeah… the bottle landed on him and everyone said we had to. So we did. It was awkward, and we also agreed never to talk about it again. Then… Sally kissed me once. That was really weird. She was in a fight with Anderson and she just did it, and we also agreed not to speak of it again."

"Don't you have any kissing experiences that you didn't have to swear never to speak of again?" asked Sherlock dryly.

"I'm getting there," said John.

"How long is this list, anyway?"

"A bit long," John admitted. "I date a lot."

"I can see that."

"Okay, stop teasing me or I won't tell you."

"Fine, fine, my lips are sealed. Carry on."

John explained how he had a few other random kisses with some other girls, and then how he'd dated four or five and slept with three of them. He also had a one-night stand sort of thing with a girl from the Quidditch team last year, but she graduated.

"So I'm your sloppy fifths then?" Sherlock asked. He was obviously joking. Sherlock may have been capable of jealousy, like he said, but it was unlikely to happen anyway.

"Oh, shut up," John muttered.

"But honestly, if you'd never snuck out after dark before, how did you have this much sex?"

"Just in obscure places," said John. "Like the training pitch locker rooms during lunch. They're always empty. Rebecca and I tried to do it in her room once, but when I touched the girls' staircase, it turned to a slide."

"Is it different with me?" asked Sherlock, and there really was honest curiosity in this voice.

"Completely different," said John. "I never… I never thought I was even capable of feeling this way about someone, honestly."

"Well, we have that in common then," Sherlock replied.

It was quiet again for a long time, and John just shut his eyes, concentrating only on where his skin was touching Sherlock's, and how even after they'd been together for almost two months, the tingling, icy fire feeling he always got at Sherlock's contact hadn't lessened.

And then John fell asleep.

* * *

**Sorry this chapter was really short. There just was only a little to put in it. It's okay, I'm making it up to you because now the plot is going to come back pretty soon here. You know, the plot I keep hinting at for more than ten chapters now but doing nothing about that you may or may not have forgotten about by now? That plot. **


	24. Adventure 9: The Professor's Office

The holidays ended and all the other students arrived at Hogwarts once more. John was kind of glad for it, in a way, because he didn't have to sit in the common room all day to stop Greg from being suspicious. Not to mention Mycroft, whose deductive skills were obviously keener than Greg's. But for a prefect, Mycroft wasn't very concerned with rule-breaking. Then again, maybe he realised there was no way he could stop Sherlock from doing what he wanted to, so saw no point in trying. Plus, he'd been seen sneaking around with Greg in the wee hours of the morning himself…

But anyway, things weren't all that different, considering he and Sherlock's sexual escapades over the holiday. They still spent time together all the time, Sherlock still found him after his classes so quickly that John still couldn't figure out how he managed to get there so fast. They slept in the Room of Requirement, and admittedly had a few more sexual encounters even after school started. John was never going to catch up on all the homework he had neglected. Not to mention he had another Quidditch game in just about a month, right after Valentine's Day. Trainings were bound to get more rigorous. With that, and homework, and keeping up with Sherlock—both his sexual needs and his adventures—John was going to be amazingly busy pretty much all the time.

Yay.

It was the second week into school when Sherlock approached John after his Defense Against the Dark Arts class, looking determined in a way John recognised as he planted a quick kiss on his cheek.

"Can I at least get lunch?" John asked as they began to walk. There was almost no thought to the fact that they walked with their fingers intertwined between them.

"You can grab something to eat on the way, sure. I need to stop by the Great Hall anyway. But we can't sit down."

"What's the adventure this time?" John asked as if Sherlock would answer.

But then Sherlock actually did answer. "I can't tell you with all these people around. Once we get out of hearing range, I will."

"Really?"

"Yes. You have to know what we're doing before we go to be prepared. We'll have to work quickly, so you being clueless won't help that."

They walked into the Hall and John looked for something that looked mildly portable to take with him.

"Hey you two!" called Greg.

"We really don't have time for him," said Sherlock, scanning the room as he said it, looking for someone specific. John didn't ask who.

John still dragged Sherlock over, because he couldn't just ignore Greg's call.

"How are ya, mate?" asked Greg.

"Pretty good," said John. "But Sherlock's feeling extra dickish today, so we're eating somewhere else."

"There's a time when he's not dickish?" Greg joked.

"No, not really," John agreed. "But I've got to study anyhow, so we're heading to the library." He really did need to study, actually, but obviously that was going to have to wait.

"Oh, well I'll see you at dinner then?" asked Greg.

"Sounds good," replied John, and Sherlock was dragging him away before John could actually finish saying it.

John then grabbed a Cornish pasty from a plate, deciding he could probably eat it while he walked, and they headed out of the Great Hall.

"Wait," Sherlock said. "There's Molly."

John looked up and saw her at the end of the table, standing over someone and grabbing at something the same way John just had.

"We need to talk to her," John said.

"I agree. Don't say anything. We'll corner her."

"She's not a wild animal," John said exasperatedly.

"In this case, she should be treated as such or she'll escape."

That was when she glanced up, and her eyes got wide. She turned immediately and rushed out of the hall.

John and Sherlock looked at each other for only a moment before running after her. People stared at them, and he heard a bark of, "No running in the castle!", but they were out of the hall in a second.

And somehow, Molly had disappeared again.

"Damn it," muttered John.

"We don't have time to look for her right now," said Sherlock. "Later. Come on."

They went up to the second floor and were walking down the corridor, but then Sherlock suddenly tugged them into a little corner with a statue. Behind it, you were only visible if someone was looking really closely. John had hidden there to communicate with Sherlock via his pin once or twice, actually.

"What the hell is your problem?" John asked. But then he realised how close they were standing to each other. "Unless you came here to snog. Then you've got no problem." Well, other than the fact that John still had a pasty in his hand.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's not why I brought us here."

"Then what the hell is your problem?"

This time Sherlock just barely smiled, and John did too. Sherlock bent down and placed a soft kiss on John's lips.

"So you did bring us here to snog then?" John asked hopefully.

"You're an idiot," Sherlock sighed before continuing, "You wanted me to tell you where we were going before we get there. This is somewhere we can speak without being overheard if we whisper."

"Oh. Then carry on."

"We're going to Professor Moriarty's office."

"Oh, you're kidding, right?"

"No. I'm going to prove to you that he's evil. I saw him in the Great Hall, so he shouldn't be in there."

"And if he leaves the hall early and catches us?"

"That's why they're called 'adventures', John."

"Okay, fine. Fine. We'll go. And you better prove me wrong this time, or I'm never listening to your theories about him again."

"A book of apologies, John," Sherlock reminded him.

"Yeah, yeah. Can we just go?"

Sherlock dragged them out of the corner and tugged them nonchalantly into the vacant Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. There was a set of stairs across from them that led to the office.

But they both knew almost immediately that Moriarty had, in fact, gone off schedule today. They could hear an angry, hissed conversation taking place in the office through the door that stood ajar.

They looked at each other for only a moment before both walking forward slowly and quietly and taking enough steps up the stairs that they could hear the conversation.

"… me you have good news, Horace, because I really am not in the mood for bad news right now." The voice was Moriarty, that was obvious. He had a strange voice that went from low to high for no reason, so it was easily recognisable. And Horace? Who was Horace again?

"It's Molly Hooper," said a voice John could tell was Slughorn… but he sounded strange. Monotonous. That could be because he was ill. He'd been missing classes pretty regularly for ages lately. "You told me to inform you if she asked any strange questions, and I thought this applied. She asked me about potions that undo powerful curses."

"_What_?" asked Moriarty sharply. "What did you say?!"

"I said that I would have to know what spell, and she said nevermind and left."

A deep breath that was obviously pissed off.

Slughorn didn't seem to notice and continued speaking. "She's been acting strange for quite a while, but this was different. She's scared of something, Jim."

"Damn it," snapped Moriarty. John definitely noticed that he didn't sound anything like he normally did. He was usually so laid back. This… this was frightening. "This was what I was afraid of. That girl… she could be dangerous to us. She… she might know something. I find it hard to believe my spell didn't work properly… but she's clever. She could have figured something out."

"So what do we do?" asked Slughorn.

"She'll have to go," said Moriarty matter-of-factly, with mock sadness in his voice.

"Should I kill her, or you?" Slughorn replied blandly.

"Oh, Horace. Don't be so thick. We can't just kill her. People will notice. Remember Sabrina? If I were an ounce less clever, I'd have been caught. We have to make it look like an accident."

"When would be the best time, Jim?"

"I don't know yet," he replied. "But we can't wait long. She could go to McGonagall."

John looked over to Sherlock then, because he had only just gotten the ability to move again through his shock.

Sherlock had been right all along. Moriarty was evil. He planned to kill Molly, and he really was the one that murdered Sabrina.

Sherlock's only response to John's look was mouthing, "_A book, John_."

And John agreed. After all this time of Sherlock trying to convince him Moriarty was a bad guy, and John _never_ believing him… He deserved a book. A set of books.

But Slughorn? Sure, he was annoying, and placed a bit too much credit in blood for John's taste, but evil? A murderer? It seemed unlikely to him. But Slughorn didn't sound like he was being pressured into this. How many other teachers were secretly on Moriarty's side?

Sherlock then dragged John out of the classroom quickly, probably sensing the end of the conversation was coming. They were back in the busy hallway. It seemed too bright, too loud. John was in shock. He wasn't sure what to say or to do.

Sherlock was dragging them through the castle. John didn't pay attention to where, but eventually the hallway was more or less vacant.

John was still trying to work through all of this. After all this time sneaking around and going on what they called adventures, when mostly they were just silly pranks, they'd stumbled upon something real. Something they couldn't ignore, that took more than a bit of nerve to solve. Something that could get people murdered. And he knew it was their responsibility to do something about it now that they'd overheard it.

He looked over to Sherlock and could tell he felt the same way.

"The book will have to wait," said John.

"I agree. I think it's about time we finally talk to Molly Hooper."

"I think so too," John replied.

But what could Molly know what was dangerous to a murderer?

John almost shuddered to think of what it could be.


	25. Chapter 25: The Lost Memory

**Trigger warning: torture. I had a hard time writing it, so hopefully you all are okay reading it…**

* * *

They found Molly in a pretty secluded corner of the castle, reading a Potions textbook.

She looked up and looked surprised, setting the book down. "Oh, hello there," she said with a little smile that seemed forced. She was looking around uncomfortably, as if for a means of escape. But the fake smile vanished after a moment—when she saw the looks on their faces, probably. "Erm… something wrong?"

"Molly, there's something you know that you shouldn't. Tell us what it is," said Sherlock.

She looked up at them with wide eyes. "But… no, there isn't. I don't know anything about… well, anything."

"But you must," said John, speaking because he knew he'd be gentler than Sherlock was being. "We just heard a… bad person saying he was nervous about you."

She looked confused now. "A bad person?"

"Please, Molly, just tell us," he said. "We know you know something. It could be life and death, Molly. You can trust us."

There was a long silence as she looked at them. And John didn't know why he noticed it, but there was a moment when she stopped looking uncomfortable, stopped looking like she was trying to escape. She was looking at them in a probing way, as if realising something.

"No, honestly, I don't know anything," said Molly, her voice guarded. "But…" she added.

"But what?" asked Sherlock quickly.

"Well…" she said carefully. "A month or so back, I just had an ordinary day… and then I was getting undressed that night and I found this note in my shirt."

She pulled a piece of parchment out of her pocket, one that she'd obviously been carrying around with her for several months, from how worn it was. She handed it to John.

It said, 'YOU'VE BEEN OBLIVIATED!'

Someone Obliviated _Molly_? Who would do that?

He looked back up at her, and she was again looking at them with searching eyes.

When she spoke next, her voice was different somehow. A bit more relaxed, maybe. "It's in my own handwriting. I must've known someone was about to erase my memory, so I left a note to myself so I'd know what happened. Ever since, I've been trying to find a way to undo a memory loss curse, but I've got no idea how! I've looked everywhere!"

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" asked John.

"Well…" she said, looking at her feet, "I thought everyone would think I was mad. I mean, who would want to Obliviate _me_? I don't do anything! The most fun I have is listening in on other people's lives!"

"Listening in?" asked Sherlock with interest.

"Yes," she sighed. "I… well, I like to eavesdrop on people," she admitted.

"Wait," said Sherlock. "So you can't think of any reason at all that you'd be the possible subject of an Obliviate curse when you listen in on people's private conversations for kicks?"

"Well, when you say it that way…"

"Whatever you overheard, it must be important," said John. _And must have to do with Moriarty_, he added mentally. Since Moriarty wanted her dead.

"Well I figured that already, or they wouldn't have bothered to make me forget it, whoever it was…"

"Tell me everything about the area around the time of the memory lapse," said Sherlock.

"I don't know what time of day it was, I just know it was October thirteenth," she said.

"That could still help. During the day, do you remember falling asleep? Maybe somewhere strange?"

Molly's eyes widened at the statement. "Yeah, actually, I do!"

"Good, that's probably when it happened," said Sherlock. "What were you about to do before you fell asleep?"

She looked at the two of them nervously, and her cheeks were pink. "Erm…"

"Molly, you've got to tell us," said Sherlock.

"Well… actually… I overheard the two of you talking about going to the Room of Requirement. So I was going to follow you."

Both Sherlock and John stared at her for a moment, but then Sherlock quickly composed himself. "Well then, I know exactly what area you were in," he said, his voice a bit sarcastic.

"I actually thought you might have been the one who Obliviated me," added Molly sheepishly, "until I showed you that note and you looked genuinely surprised. I thought I followed you to the Room and you caught me and made me forget it. That's why I was avoiding you both. I was a little cross with you, and a little scared honestly, because I thought you cursed me."

"Well it wasn't us," John assured her. "You've got to trust us, we'd never curse you."

She smiled, a smile he hadn't seen in a while. "I know that now."

"We wouldn't make you forget it. It's not _that_ important of a secret," John added. "Not worth cursing a friend over."

She really did look very relieved, like a weight was off of her shoulders. "So I can see it?" she asked brightly.

"No," John and Sherlock both said at the same time.

She looked disappointed.

"But anyway," Sherlock said, "since you know it wasn't us who did it, what else in the area was peculiar?"

"You know you're holding a pasty, right?" asked Molly suddenly to John. He looked down and saw the now cold pasty in his hands.

"Oh, right," he muttered, setting it down. Not like he was hungry anymore.

"Could you two please focus?" Sherlock asked.

"Right, right, sorry. What'd you ask?" enquired Molly.

Sherlock signed heavily, so John repeated the question instead. "What else was weird on that day, in that area?"

"Erm… nothing. I was just under a tree. It wasn't raining, that's about the only odd thing."

John chuckled along with her until Sherlock glared them both into shutting up.

"Then tell me anything unimportant," Sherlock said. "Anything at all that you remember. Small details could be important. Especially what people were around."

"Well… I dunno. Just a few students, a professor…"

"Which professor?" both John and Sherlock asked simultaneously.

"Do you often do that? Talk at the same time?" asked Molly.

"No," they both said in unison.

They both looked at each other with glares before John gestured for Sherlock to speak. "Molly, it's important. Which professor did you see?"

She screwed up her face, like she was trying to remember. "Almost positive it was Professor Moriarty."

Sherlock and John both turned to look at each other. It was what they had feared.

"Molly," John said carefully before Sherlock could say anything, "I think what you saw was a bigger deal than you might imagine."

"You do? Do you think you know what I saw?"

"We think it has to do with Professor Moriarty."

"But… he's nice. What's wrong with him?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," said John.

"Well, I'm afraid I won't be any help. Remember, whatever I saw or heard has been Obliviated. From all my research, it's long gone."

"No," Sherlock said. "It's not long gone."

"You know a way to get it back?" she asked, standing up.

"There's a way," Sherlock said. "But you won't like it."

John looked over to him. What was he thinking?

"I don't care what it is," said Molly. "I need to know."

"Well… a memory curse has on several occasions been lifted by using the Cruciatus Curse."

John grabbed at Sherlock's arm. "Are you fucking serious? You plan to torture her?"

"She said she didn't care what it was."

"I think she bloody well cares if it's _torture_, for god's sake! What the hell is wrong with—"

"John," Molly said quietly.

He looked over to her. "No," he said flatly. "I won't let him torture you. Apart from the fact that it's inhumane and I don't want to see my friend hurt, and the fact that it's an Unforgivable Curse and if Sherlock gets caught he'll go to Azkaban for the rest of his bloody life, there's also the fact that we don't know how much torture it takes to bring the memory back. Getting tortured enough can drive you mad, Molly."

"I'd know how far I can push her, John," said Sherlock. "I'll stop before her mind breaks."

"Sherlock, you can't—"

"I don't care," she said calmly. "I've been slowly driven mad for months because I didn't know what I forgot. I've just got this horrible feeling… that people could die if I don't remember." Then she looked over to Sherlock. "Do it," she said.

"Sherlock… please," John said in what he hadn't meant to be a whimper. Sherlock looked over to him, and the cold, uncaring look in his eyes melted into concern for John.

"It's her choice, John," he said.

He set his jaw angrily as he looked at Sherlock, who looked sad now. Sympathetic. For John when Molly was the one he was going to torture. It was ridiculous.

But apparently there was nothing he could do about it either. "Well, fine then, but I'm not going to be here when you do it," said John, turning to leave.

"John, we can't do it right this second."

"We can't?" asked Molly.

"We have class in less than an hour, first of all," he said. "And if we did it right here, right now, even in this back corner of the castle, your screams would be heard."

John swallowed hard at the word 'scream', and he imagined Molly did too.

"Then where?" she asked.

"The only place far enough is the Forbidden Forest. We'll have to go deep inside."

"The… the…" she asked, her eyes the size of Galleons.

"It's really not that bad," assured John. "I'd much rather spend a week in the Forbidden Forest than get tortured by Sherlock."

They both glared. "You're not helping," supplied Molly.

"Just hoping I can talk you out of this."

"Well you can't," she said, the fierceness in her voice surprising him. "John, you just don't get it. You're the brave Gryffindor. Sherlock's the cleverest person that's ever set foot in this castle. Me? I'm just Molly Hooper. I never do anything important. I'm so bored of my life that I listen in on the lives of other people. Doing something that could possibly save lives is kind of a dream come true for me, torturing being involved or not."

John wasn't sure what he could say to that. He understood wanting to be important, to be a hero. It was why he was drawn to Sherlock at all, in some ways. Because he was different, and he made John feel special.

"Okay. Okay, fine. It's your life."

She nodded. "So when do we go out?"

"Tonight. We'll meet you outside Hufflepuff common room."

"Okay, it's—" she began.

"I know where it is," said Sherlock, and then he got up and started to walk away.

"He's not very good at manners, is he?" she asked, staring after him.

"No. Never," John replied.

John looked at Molly for another long moment, and then he went to follow Sherlock.

* * *

John was deciding all day whether he wanted to go to the forest with Sherlock. In fact, he was deciding whether or not he was furious with Sherlock for having the idea in the first place. He was right, it was Molly's mind, Molly's body, Molly's life, but that didn't mean John was glad Sherlock had brought up the option.

He eventually decided, however, that they were never going to figure out what Moriarty was up to without doing this, and that not going wouldn't keep it from happening. So he met Sherlock at the Room of Requirement at midnight.

"I thought you weren't coming," said Sherlock without turning to the door.

"I changed my mind," he replied.

Sherlock continued looking through his book for another moment before looking up, his eyes softer than John expected.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked.

"A little, yeah."

"You must realise that this is the only way."

John sighed. "Yeah, I realise that. I just wish you'd have _tried_ to find another way."

"But I knew there wasn't one. It'd be a waste of time."

"It's not really about whether you'd have found one," John said. "It's just—oh, nevermind."

"It's just that you wish I were able to be compassionate towards people other than you?"

A short pause. "Yeah, I guess."

"Well I can be, in some cases, if that makes you feel better," said Sherlock. "But this is important. And, logically, the pros outweigh the cons immensely. Molly should be fine, and after we're done, we could stop whatever Moriarty has planned before it starts."

"_Should_ be fine, Sherlock. That means there's a chance she won't be."

"A slim chance. And she knows that. She's not that stupid."

"Okay, fine," John relented. "Let's just go."

Sherlock walked up to John then, putting his hands on either side of his face.

"John. Please don't be mad at me for this."

"How about I agree not to be angry if you don't drive Molly mad by tomorrow morning."

"John, I w—"

"She's my friend. I've known her since I was little. And what's worse, she fancies you, meaning she'll do anything you say more willingly, so I'm not sure she'd have agreed if anyone else had suggested it. If you let her get hurt…"

"I won't," Sherlock insisted. "I know she's important to you, and I wouldn't hurt someone you care about. And… I'm actually mildly fond of her myself. I'll be careful."

John nodded.

"So _please_, can you trust me?"

Every time John got asked this question, he was somehow surprised by his automatic answer. But this time, he wasn't surprised at all.

"I do trust you."

"Good. Then let's go."

John nodded again, and took Sherlock's hand in his, squeezing it.

Getting down to the first floor was amazingly easy compared to the last time they did it. They used an Invisibility potion again, and John kept himself from panicking this time so that the potion didn't wear off. They got to what must have been the entrance to the common room, since he saw a stack of barrels, which he remembered Sherlock mentioning.

"When do you think she'll be here?" whispered John.

"Oh, is that you? Are you invisible?" asked Molly's voice.

"Yeah, where are you?"

She came out from behind a suit of armour. "Filch came by," she whispered in explanation. "Luckily Mrs Norris wasn't there or I'd have been caught for sure."

"Well we're going to have to get out of the castle now, which will be harder," said Sherlock. "So take this."

He handed over the potion, and she didn't ask what it was before she drank it, probably assuming what it was for from the fact that John and Sherlock were both invisible.

"Okay, ready," she said. "But how am I supposed to follow you if—oh," she muttered in surprise. "Erm… who is that?"

"Me," said Sherlock. "I was answering your question. You'll follow us by keeping hold of my hand. Don't let go or you won't be able to find us."

There was silence for a moment. "Oh, yes, okay. Sorry, I nodded, but then I realised you can't see me, and you know… okay, I'll shut up now."

"Good." John didn't know whether Sherlock meant it was good that Molly understood or good that she was going to shut up. Probably both. "Now," he continued, "stay as calm as you can or the potion will wear off too early."

"Okay."

At that Sherlock dragged both John and Molly, one with each arm, to the entrance hall. He waited for a moment to make sure the corridor was completely empty before he opened the door and they all snuck out. Somehow he knew without asking when they were both out and shut it again.

"Okay, now that we're outside, I doubt we'll be noticed," said Sherlock, "but be careful anyhow."

They walked to the forest at a considerable pace, considering Sherlock was dragging them, and much taller than both of them and had longer legs. They were quickly under the cover of the trees.

"Good, we're in the clear," said Sherlock.

"In the clear. Inside a dangerous forest full of monsters."

"Precisely," Sherlock agreed, either not noticing or ignoring her sarcasm. "Come on, we need to go farther in for this."

They walked in silence for long enough that John could see the other two in the light from their wands and Sherlock didn't need to hold their hands any longer. After a few minutes like that, though, a small hand found his and squeezed. Molly needed support. He gripped her hand back, because he was scared too. He trusted Sherlock, that was true. He knew Sherlock would do his best to make sure Molly got out of this okay. Only he wasn't absolutely _positive_ that was possible, and that made John terrified.

He kept her hand in his until Sherlock stopped walking. "This should do," he said. "Far enough in that it might just sound like the cry of an animal from the castle."

"Oh… good then," said Molly weakly.

"You're amazingly insensitive, Sherlock," supplied John.

"What am I supposed to say? How do you sugar coat the screams or torture? And, more importantly, how does that help Molly?"

"I dunno, by not scaring her to death before you even start?"

"John," inserted Molly. She pressed her fingers more tightly into his hand again so he'd look at her. "I'm not that fragile, okay? I know what I'm getting into. Sherlock won't let anything happen to me."

John glanced over and saw Sherlock's thoughts clearly on his face for once in the glow of his wand tip. He was shocked that Molly trusted him so thoroughly.

"No… no I won't," said Sherlock carefully.

"See? Nothing to worry about, is there?" despite the confidence in her words, her voice was still shaky and feeble. "But… John?"

"Yeah?"

"I… I feel really terrible for asking this…"

"Molly, there's no way you can ask for too much right now. Whatever you need."

She took an audible breath. "Could you stay by me? Just for something to hold onto?"

He'd meant it when he said she couldn't ask for too much, but this almost felt like too much anyway. Holding her while she endured the worst pain of her life?

"Of course," he said. Because what else could he say to her right now?

"You should get on the ground," Sherlock suggested. This time he did her the kindness of not explaining why. The two of them went over to the nearest tree and sat down against it. She was clasping his hand really tight now, tighter than he assumed she was capable.

A few more silent seconds passed. Then Sherlock's wand went up and he pointed it at Molly.

John heard Sherlock's deep breath, and considered for the first time that this whole thing could have as bad of an effect on Sherlock as it was bound to have on Molly.

He realised it too late, however, because within a moment, John heard the word, cold and clear.

"_Crucio_."

And maybe John hoped it wouldn't work. Since, in his readings, it said that the Cruciatus curse only really worked if the caster had a sadistic streak that gave them few qualms with inflicting pain. Sherlock wasn't a sadist.

But it was less than a second before Molly's first scream rang out.

* * *

Sherlock had read on the Cruciatus curse many times. He knew how it worked, he knew what people described it to feel like. He'd even read an article in which Harry Potter was interviewed on his past uses of the curse—I guess being Harry Potter made you immune to the law. Or maybe it was the fact that he did it on some pretty horrible people that deserved it.

And maybe that's why Harry Potter never described it feeling like this. The people he tried it on—with little success, since he was too 'good' of a person to truly hurt someone—had been evil. Deserved it more than anyone.

Molly Hooper, however, was not evil. In fact, she was one of the purest people Sherlock could think of. Which maybe Sherlock had taken for granted before now, because now that he was doing this curse on her… it was like torture on himself.

There wasn't physical pain. He wasn't screaming the way Molly was. But it hurt somewhere deep in his chest… like he was scarring his own heart. The heart he used to swear he didn't have. Look how helpful it was being now—because if that heart weren't there, he would have no problem doing this. He was in the no-man's-land that most people could not count themselves in: heartless enough to Cruciate an innocent person without complications, but human enough for it to hurt him too.

It was like all of his other senses had dulled to nothingness, leaving nothing but watching the two of them, hearing them.

Because it wasn't just her that was like his own personal hell. She was screaming, and she was in pain like she'd never known, and there was no determination that could have prepared her for this, all that was true. But then she was being held by John. Who looked horrified. His eyes were shut tight, and both his arms were wrapped around her, rocking her back and forth as her body erupted into spasms. When there was a break in her yells, he thought he might have heard something like a sob from John.

His mind was screaming at him, telling him to stop. That nothing was worth this for any of them. He was going to ruin them all.

His wand went down. Molly took deep, heaving breaths that sounded like moans of pain. She was shaking in John's arms, but Sherlock thought John might have been shaking too. For god's sake, _Sherlock_ was shaking. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

"W—what are you doing?" asked Molly, her voice trembling and frail. "I don't remember yet. You have to keep going."

Sherlock was just staring down at her. Then John opened his eyes. Sherlock could see the tears shining in them from the wand light.

"Sherlock, don't do it again," begged John.

"No, don't listen to him," commanded Molly. "You _have_ to. I'm strong enough."

But Sherlock wasn't really questioning Molly's strength. He was questioning his own. He was still heaving in breath, but they were too distraught themselves to notice.

"Sherlock!" Molly said, her voice ringing with desperation and authority at the same time. "The reason you can do this is because I'm on your side. Anyone else that had this done, they were fighting whoever was cursing them, right? But I want you to do this. That might sound mad, but I _need_ you to do this."

"No you don't," said John to Molly. He turned to Sherlock. "Sherlock, you can't."

"_Sherlock_," Molly said urgently. "_Do_ _it_."

He met eyes with her, and he knew she wasn't lying. She wasn't pretending for his sake. She meant it.

His wand went back up.

"Sherlock, don't yo—" John started, but Sherlock had already said it.

"_Crucio_."

The screams returned, and his chest was positively _burning_. His whole body was lead, and soon he couldn't hold himself up. He crumpled down to his knees.

John noticed. "Sherlock?" he asked desperately. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

The panic in John's voice didn't help. Sherlock shut his eyes, but her face was still there, contorted in agony.

He focused his mind, the vessel he'd learned to control his entire life.

_The memory. Bring me the memory. _

More screaming. He could now hear John was sobbing as he held Molly, even over her howls.

_Just the memory. Then this agony can be over for us all. _

"Molly," Sherlock said, and his voice sounded strained. "What did you see? What did you hear?"

She probably couldn't even hear him. Or if she could, she had no way of responding.

He then, behind his closed eyes, saw something that looked like a taut string. It was being pulled tighter and tighter.

He knew what it was. Her sanity. He was connected with her mind. Now he could wait until just before breaking point, and then he could stop, wait for the string to loosen again, and start once more.

If only he could resist the pain.

This was going to be a long night.

* * *

He waited for the string to tighten as much as it could without breaking, and then he gave her a break, six more times. She looked tired, and she was crying, but she kept encouraging Sherlock to continue, her voice weaker each time, but her conviction just the same. John stopped fighting it after the second break. Stopped speaking at all after the third. His eyes were dead. Sherlock imagined he didn't look much different. He hadn't been able to lift himself off the ground for hours. Neither of them asked, and he didn't want them to.

This was his eighth bout of torture. Her screams didn't die down, except maybe they sounded different because she was losing her voice. He was watching the string. Tightening. _Tightening_.

"Molly, remember. Remember what you've forgotten."

Then something ripped from her throat that sounded coherent. "_WAIT_!"

He stopped.

"No, no! It's almost there! Sherlock, it's almost there!" she screeched.

"Your sting—"

"I don't give a damn. Another few seconds. Now or I'll lose it!"

"_CRUCIO_!"

This yell from her was louder than all the rest, like a screaming sob, and he felt a nearly tangible stab in his chest. For the first time, he cried out. Her string was too tight. He was going to lose it.

"YES!"

It was from Molly. She'd yelled yes. He dropped his wand and let himself fall onto all fours.

"I've got it!" she said, her voice lost, but still audible. "You did it!"

And Sherlock let his forehead touch the forest floor and he sobbed. He gripped his hair hard and pulled in on himself, falling onto his side in a foetal position.

"Sherlock?"

"_Sherlock_?!"

He didn't know which one of them was yelling it. Probably both. He couldn't tell over the screaming in his head. Her screaming.

There were hands fluttering over him. Cold hands. Hands he had made cold. His body was wracking so hard it hurt.

"Make it stop."

He didn't realise the whimper was him until the other two went dead silent.

"Is it… torturing him back?" asked Molly, appalled.

"I've never heard of that before," replied John. His hand was on Sherlock's cheek, but he could barely feel it. Just the cold of his fingers.

"Sherlock, I'm okay," said Molly in a whisper. "I don't feel mad, I promise. Not great, but not mad."

"That probably wasn't helpful."

"Sorry," she muttered. "Sherlock, come on, it's okay."

One of them hauled him up from the ground so he was sitting up, and there was one of them on either side of him. He was surprised when both of his hands were filled with fingers. One side was John, the other was Molly.

They were comforting him. After what he had done, _they _were comforting _him_.

He took deep breaths.

_Calm down, Sherlock. You have more control over yourself than this and you know it. _Somehow, the voice didn't sound like him. Actually, it sounded like Mycroft. _She's fine. You have the memory. If you don't pull yourself together, you won't stop Moriarty. Somebody else might have died from what you tried, but you didn't. So don't waste the life you were so graciously spared. CALM DOWN. _

He didn't know how long it had been before he opened his eyes. Molly and John were both looking up at him with their eyes wide and petrified.

"I didn't know," Molly said quietly—half from her voice being gone, but half from shame too. "That it was affecting you. I'd have told you to stop."

"I'm fine," said Sherlock, his voice as bland as usual.

"Yeah, except for that episode you just had," John said, the sarcasm only barely tingeing his voice, because he mostly sounded painfully concerned.

"It was just a physical reaction to torturing an innocent," said Sherlock. "I'm fine."

He stood.

"Sherlock, you're not fine."

"I am," Sherlock said. "Now, John, are you ready for another adventure?"

"Adventure? Now? Are you joking?"

"We need to see that memory. And instead of hearing it from Molly, we could just put it into a Pensieve. And I happen to know where one is."

John sighed, apparently giving up on arguing. "The Headmaster's office?"

"Exactly. Molly, are you coming?"

"What's breaking a few rules after that?" she asked dryly, her voice tired.

"We could wait til tomorrow," John suggested.

"No. We're going now," said Molly, surprising them both at the command in her voice.

"Fine. Let's go," said John.

And they headed from the forest, and Sherlock blatantly ignored the hollowness in his chest.


	26. Adventure 10: The Headmaster's Pensieve

John knew that Sherlock wasn't really okay, but he figured he had to stow that away for the time being. But still, he couldn't get the picture of Sherlock crying from his head. Like he had been completely broken. John should have considered way earlier what torturing an innocent soul could do to the torturer. Was Sherlock's soul damaged now? John wasn't sure how that worked exactly, but he knew that souls could be broken. But Sherlock didn't kill anyone, so he was okay… right?

John considered all these things as the three of them took more Invisibility Potion to get back into the castle and up to the Headmistress' office, which according to Sherlock had a Pensieve. How he knew that, John had no idea. Maybe he'd broken into it before. That wouldn't be surprising.

John followed Sherlock, who seemed to know where the office was, somehow. Actually, John had never known where it was himself, and he was too distracted on the way there to even remember now.

He was noticing, however, that the school seemed curiously Filch-less. Well, most likely he had to sleep, and by now it was probably an hour before sunrise. So maybe the school was left unguarded in these wee hours. John would have to make a note of that.

As they walked through the castle, he was holding Molly's hand again. It was frighteningly cold still, but that was probably to be expected. The important thing was that she didn't seem crazy, he supposed.

They reached a gargoyle.

"Butter Mellow," said Sherlock. The gargoyle jumped out of the way.

"What the hell is Butter Mellow?"

"No idea," replied Sherlock. "Not sure it _is_ something at all. Maybe she uses nonsense words so people won't guess the password."

"That'd be clever thinking."

They stepped onto the staircase which, before they could start to go up, started moving on its own.

Then they got to the top and opened the second door.

John had never seen the Headmistress' office, but it was not what he expected it to be. McGonagall was curt, clean, bland most of the time. He figured her office would be the same… and most of it was. But then there was a table that held strange objects. They spun and puffed smoke and whizzed.

"Why would McGonagall keep stuff like this?" whispered John.

"Because they were once mine."

They all jumped hard, looking around. Then they saw who the speaker had been. There were many portraits on the wall of all the past headmasters. And they were all sleeping but one. The biggest one of a man with a long beard, half-moon spectacles, and a pointed hat. He was half smiling and his pale blue eyes twinkled playfully.

The painting then spoke again. "Minerva, try as she might to be stern, has a sentimental streak. She kept this table here because these things were once mine, the same way Severus did in his short time in this office."

They all gaped at the painting.

"You're Albus Dumbledore," said Sherlock.

"I am," the painting agreed. "And you're Sherlock Holmes."

"How did you—" John started.

"Know that? Well, as it were, I've seen Mr Holmes in here before. He's snuck in more than once. But I knew his name from something else entirely. You see, John, you have several of my Chocolate Frog cards in your bag that you forgot about ages ago. I peak in on my other pictures for interesting conversation, and admittedly your conversation with Mr Holmes here is about as interesting as it gets."

"So… you hear us talking about—"

"Breaking almost every school rule we have? Certainly."

"But… if you know our names and what we're doing, why don't you tell McGonagall?"

"Because I was once a Gryffindor myself, John. You think I didn't sneak out at night once or twice?"

"So… you aren't mad at us for coming in here?"

"Maybe I would be, usually," mused Dumbledore. "Except you are here to find the truth about something terrible, and that I can respect. The Pensieve is in the cabinet there."

John had no idea how the painting knew so much, but it was a little unnerving, even with the kindness on his wrinkle-webbed face.

After a hesitation, the three of them started towards the cabinet.

"Molly," said Dumbledore. All three turned again. "You're going to be fine, you know. Your heart is pure and full of love, and with that, we can endure anything. And Sherlock," he added. "You will be too, if you remember not to shut the ones who care about you out. You have a good heart, if only you were not afraid to show it."

John decided right then and there that he liked Dumbledore a lot.

"Now you better hurry. Minerva will be up in less than an hour."

At that Dumbledore leaned his head against the frame of the painting and shut his eyes, but John had a feeling he wasn't really sleeping.

They hurried then, and Sherlock guided Molly on how to pull the memory out of her head as he pulled out the Pensieve, a kind of stone basin with weird symbols on it in some other language. John had never seen one before, but he'd learned about one in class.

John didn't pay much attention to how Molly got the memory out until she was already pulling her wand away from her temple, a silvery strand coming from the tip that had a strange consistency John couldn't really describe.

Molly put it inside and the surface began to swirl.

"Come on. We have to put our faces in," Sherlock said.

John only hesitated for a moment before dunking his head in the stuff that looked sort of like a liquid. It didn't make him wet though, and a moment later he had a strange feeling like he was flipping around and he suddenly landed on his feet in the sunny courtyard. They were looking at Molly sitting under a tree. She seemed to be nonchalantly looking at a book in her lap, but John could clearly hear a conversation happening a half a dozen metres away, showing she was listening closely.

And the conversation was he and Sherlock.

_"Good, then we can go onto the next adventure," said Sherlock._

_"Already?" asked John._

"Oh, this is weird," said present-John.

"Quite," replied Sherlock.

_"No time like the present," said past-Sherlock._

_John sighed. "Alright, then what do we do now?"_

_"We need to go back to the Room of Requirement to decide that," said Sherlock. _

_Molly looked automatically interested, and then she stood up and followed behind them._

"How did we not notice that?" asked Sherlock.

"People usually don't," replied Molly. "Come on, this part was wiped from my memory. Let's follow me."

"That might be one of the weirdest things I've ever heard you say," replied John.

"Oh, shut up. Come on, we'll lose me."

"Nevermind, _that's_ the weirdest."

She rolled her eyes, but started walking without them. The other two followed.

_Molly was trailing behind John and Sherlock, just far enough behind that they wouldn't notice, which she stopped, looking to the side. She'd spied another conversation. She hid behind a corner and listened._

"It's Moriarty and Slughorn," said John.

"Yes, obviously," said Sherlock. "Now shut up so I can listen."

_"So what did you want to talk about? I've got papers to grade," asked Slughorn shortly. _

_"Well, I actually wanted to speak with you about management."_

_Molly suddenly took a vial out of her pocket and downed it. She went invisible._

"Clever thinking," said John. "Do you always carry that around?"

"Usually," replied Molly.

"Shut up!" Sherlock hissed.

John called attention to the conversation again.

_"… we speak to each other openly?" Moriarty was saying._

_"Of course we can, Jim."_

_"You're a Slytherin, same as me. You're Head of House. If anything, you have the House's best interests at heart even more than I."_

_"I always try to do what's best for the students, yes," asked Slughorn warily. _

_"So you'd do anything you had to? To do what's best for them?"_

_"I don't understand what you're getting at here, James," said Slughorn. _

_"What I'm getting at," said Moriarty, "is that I wonder what your opinion is on how Minerva has been running things lately."_

"This is about McGonagall?" John asked.

"If you talk one more time—" threatened Sherlock.

"Okay, okay." John shut up.

_"You know how I feel about it, I'm sure," said Slughorn stiffly._

_"Yes, I thought I did. I only wanted to hear it from you, Horace."_

_"Well," said Slughorn. "I think that there are students that will succeed and there are ones who won't. And Minerva's new policy of having all the Houses intermingle, at meals and in classes, is causing the more impressive students to become… distracted."_

_"Especially our fellow Purebloods?" asked Moriarty_.

Slughorn didn't look comfortable anymore. He knew something was wrong with Moriarty. Maybe he'd known for a while.

_"I… I do admit… Don't get me wrong, I don't hate Muggleborns. I'm no You-Know-Who supporter, Jim."_

_"I understand, Horace. But still. They're just not the same as Pureblood wizards, are they?"_

_"What are you saying, James?"_

_"I'm saying that Minerva's way of leading this school is going against the tradition of the establishment. What do you think Salazar Slytherin would think of where this school has gone, Horace?"_

_"He'd despise it, of that I'm sure. But I still don't know what you're getting at, James," he said impatiently. _

_"I'm only considering that this school might need new leadership. To bring it back to what the founders originally intended."_

_"I… Maybe you're right," Slughorn said. _

_And then Moriarty had a mischevious look on his face as he gave a big smile. He began to clap. "Oh, bravo, Horace. That was a wonderful show." His voice was right back to its ordinary, singsong quality. _

_"W—what?"_

_Moriarty laughed dramatically. "You plan to go to the Headmistress right now and hand her the memory right out of your head."_

_"What do you mean, Jim?" asked Slughorn, but he looked more nervous than before. _

_"Do you imagine you can lie to me?" he asked, still grinning like an utter madman. _

_"I… listen, Jim."_

_"You had your chance to be honest. You lied. So time for plan B. _Imperio_."_

It was obvious when the spell took effect. John had seen Moriarty use the spell in his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. This explained why he was so good at it.

_"Much better. Now I just need to get the rest of the professors on board with me. But you can help with that, can't you, Horace?" He nodded in response. "Good. Start with Sybill. She's so strange already that nobody will notice if she's under an enchantment."_

_Moriarty began to walk away with Slughorn, but then he turned and looked at the spot where Molly stood invisibly. _

_"I'll be back for you in a minute," he whispered. "You just stay there." He waved his wand at the spot._

"He made it so I couldn't move my feet," said Molly. "Or speak. And I realised what was happening, so I took some parchment out of my pocket and wrote myself the note. I put it in my shirt, and somehow he never bothered to look."

_The area was silent for a moment. _

_Then Moriarty came back. _

_"Molly Hooper," he said. "Now, now, eavesdropping, are you? That's never a good idea, even invisibly. See, I would put you under the Imperius curse, only students wouldn't be helpful, in this case. And I can't very well kill you. People would notice." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I think a forgetfulness charm would do. Obliviate."_

Then there was a thump as Molly fell to the ground and the memory went black. After a nauseating moment of strange movement, John's feet his solid ground again. They were in McGonagall's office again.

"I think the Headmistress should see that," suggested that same voice again. They looked to his painting, but his eyes were still shut like he was sleeping. He had a little smile on his face.

"I agree with the random voice," said John dryly.

"But we can't just show her," said Sherlock.

"Why not?"

"Because she'll wonder why we waited so long. How we got the information back if it was Obliviated."

"Won't she be able to tell it was Molly's memory?"

"Probably," Sherlock agreed. "But if Molly gives it anonymously, I believe she'll keep it a secret. She must know this information could endanger Molly. And if we add our memory from earlier, what we heard in the office—"

"What you heard in what office?" asked Molly.

"It's why we came to find you," John explained. "We overheard them talking about killing you."

She gave a tiny strangled sound. "And you didn't think you should tell me that earlier?"

John and Sherlock looked to each other. "Didn't think about it, no," said Sherlock.

"So how are we leaving the memories then?" asked John.

"Oh, I've got an idea for that."

* * *

After another five minutes, Sherlock left a package outside the room. It was two wine bottles, each with one memory inside, with a note inside.

"Wine always makes me pensieve."

Sherlock explained that it could look like a typo, but that McGonagall was clever enough to know the truth. She'd know the bottles contained memories rather than alcohol.

So after they dropped Molly off at her common room, and the two of them went up to the Room of Requirement.

They sat on the bed.

"So, are we going to talk about what happened in the forest?" asked John. He knew that after what he saw in the Pensieve, Moriarty's plan to take the school from McGonagall and make it for Purebloods, that should have been what he was focusing on… but he couldn't stop worrying about Sherlock.

"No, we're not," Sherlock replied. He got in bed and laid with his legs tucked into his chest, facing away from John.

John sighed. "Sherlock, you heard Dumbledore. You'll be okay as long as you don't shut people out. As long as you don't ignore your feelings."

"You know, John, I've never in my life taken advice from a painting, and I don't think I'll start today."

John sat there for a long while, looking at Sherlock's back. It never calmed. He could see how tense he was without even feeling the muscles. But Sherlock couldn't hide from how he was feeling for long…

Could he?

John sighed once more and lay down in the bed. He cuddled into Sherlock's back, and Sherlock didn't move away.

And maybe John was imagining it… but he almost thought he could just barely feel Sherlock's body shaking.

He squeezed Sherlock tighter, as if that make it stop.

Why had he let Sherlock do this to himself? And what exactly were going to be the consequences?


	27. Chapter 27: The Desperate Intervention

John was officially unable to be productive in any way. He felt like the world was falling to pieces in front of his eyes, and like he was meant to do something about it but had no idea how he could possibly stop it from crumbling.

He'd known for weeks now, but it'd finally sunk deep into his skin: Professor Moriarty was evil. Really evil, the way Sherlock had always been saying. He was one of the people obsessed with pure blood, meaning that John was on his list of people he wanted to dispose of. And he didn't know who it was safe to turn to, because apparently he was using the Imperius Curse on all the professors one by one. Sherlock had deduced from Molly's memory that he didn't plan to try it on McGonagall. John supposed that was because she was strong enough of will that she wouldn't fall to its powers. Or maybe because it'd be too hard to get her alone to do it. Who knew, but John was relieved at that.

They had no idea if she'd gotten the memories, however. It's not like she could tell them. She didn't know they were involved. She hadn't spoken to Molly either. They could only hope she'd seen it and had a plan.

Then there was the state of Molly and Sherlock. Actually, Molly was pretty good, considering. She'd seemed tired of late, and jumpy, but John supposed that was because she knew that someone was plotting to kill her. The actual torture seemed to only affect her for a few weeks. She spoke to John about it frequently, about how it'd felt while it happened and how she felt afterwards. The talking helped, so John listened.

But Sherlock was a different story. He was hardly recognisable as the person that John had been quickly falling head over heels for. All of his ability to be caring, or sympathise with others, or do anything that could be called decent, had vanished. He was worse than the day John had met him, and he had been bad enough that day. He still met John after classes and walked with him most places, but a majority of the time he was just a ghost, a shadow that followed John silently, never actually making his presence particularly known. But the few times he did speak, what he said was rude, almost without fail.

This morning was a good example, actually. John was doing an essay one morning in the Great Hall over breakfast. He'd woken up early to finish it before he had to go to History of Magic. Sherlock leaned over his shoulder, and he said in a bored voice, "You know all that is stupid, right?"

John's patience for Sherlock's tendency to be a prat nowadays was getting thinner with each day. "Well, if you think you'd do a better job, why don't you bloody write it for me?"

"Because even a professor as dim as Binns would know you cheated if the words were mine instead of yours. It'd be too much of an improvement—more than you are capable of, I'm sure."

John gave an irritated breath, but managed not to say anything.

"Oh, god, Mycroft's coming. We're going," he said, tugging at John's arm.

Usually John, though petulantly, went with Sherlock. He figured that if he played along, maybe Sherlock would get better. But now it had been three weeks and he didn't think keeping quiet about it was helping. So he wasn't going to do it anymore.

"You can go," John snapped. "But I'm going to stay, because right now Mycroft's company is more pleasant than yours."

He didn't look up as he said it, but when Sherlock was silent, he did glance up. Sherlock's face was as blank as always.

"Fine," he said shortly, and he walked away. John set his head down on his table, so frustrated that if he were even a little more sensitive, he might get furious tears in his eyes. He knew he needed to be more supportive than that. Sherlock was being an utter dick, that was true, but it was for a reason. He was hurting and John knew it. John had tried to get him to talk dozens of times, but every time John mentioned it, he would shut down and stop talking, or say something horrible, or just walk away indignantly.

"Damn it," John muttered at his parchment, as if it was the essay's fault. It really was horrible, in Sherlock's defense. He was going to fail it. He might as well not even turn it in.

"Not going to be a very romantic day for you, is it?" said Greg, who was sitting down with Mycroft across the table.

"Not in the slightest," replied John to the table.

"Sherlock's been a pain recently," Greg continued.

"You don't have to fuckin' tell me about it. I deal with it every moment of the bloody day."

"Did something happen?"

John couldn't very well explain that Sherlock had tortured an innocent soul and it was having adverse effects that he didn't want to talk about, so he was shutting out everyone to keep it to himself, so he said instead, "Dunno. Does he need a reason to be a dick?"

"If you really think that, why are you still with him?" asked Greg, his voice gentle as opposed to accusing.

John lifted his head and sighed. "I don't really know," he said. "That sounds horrible, but… I guess I got to believe this is just a phase he's going through."

"If I may insert my opinion," said Mycroft. "I've known him his whole life and I've never seen him like this, this much is true, but he does go through phases like this at times. It's not out of the ordinary for him. Just not usually to this extent."

"I've seen him in one of his depressions," said John. "I know he has them. But this is unbearable."

"Would you like my advice?" asked Mycroft.

John sighed. "Yeah, I guess."

"I never would have been able to snap him out of something like this in our youth, but I believe that you can. Even through his angry haze, he still cares for you immensely. Beneath all this, he is petrified of losing you, I know he is. He has thought since the beginning he would do something to drive you away. So my advice—though undesirable for you to go through with, I'm sure—is to fulfill his worst fears. Make him think he's lost you. If I have not overestimated his feelings for you, he will do anything to make things right, even tell you what's bothering him."

John was ashamed of the fact that he considered it. But Sherlock was hurting! How could John justify making it worse that way? Plus… "I think you've overestimated them," said John quietly. "Sherlock… well, he's Sherlock. Maybe he never really cared about me that much."

Mycroft gave a mirthless smirk. "I think you do not see yourself clearly, John. Or Sherlock's feelings for you, for that matter. But it is, of course, your choice. It was only a suggestion."

"Well thanks. I just don't think I could do that to him."

John stood and started rolling up his parchment.

"You going to class?" asked Greg.

"Erm… yeah."

In truth, he wasn't going to bother going to History of Magic. This essay was rubbish, and Binns might give him an extension if he just didn't show up. Plus, even if he didn't, he was bound to fail it even if he turned it in. And, lastly, John didn't give enough of a fuck to bother going to Binns' stupid class at the moment, which was bound to make him fall asleep anyway.

So instead he went up to the seventh floor and sat in he and Sherlock's version of the Room of Requirement, staring at the fire in a brooding manner.

Then he remembered that he hadn't seen Molly that morning. He went inside his shirt for his Harpies pin.

Because, see, he had two communication pins now. The Cannons one for Sherlock, and the old Harpies one was now for Molly. He made a point of talking to her on it several times a day to make sure—as morbid as it sounds—she wasn't dead.

"Molly?"

"I'm alive, John," she said, her voice somewhere between irritated and amused.

"Good. Don't you go dying on me," John replied.

"Is Sherlock there?" she asked.

He was quiet for a moment. "No."

"Are you two okay?"

He glared at the fire that never went out again at her words.

"I'm sorry. It wasn't my place to ask," she said. "Thanks for checking on me."

He didn't answer.

"If you ever want to talk," she continued after a moment. "I'm always here. You've been so great. I owe you."

John figured this time he should say something. "Okay. Thanks."

"See you later."

He sighed heavily and continued his gloomy scowling into the flames.

"Oh, John."

John turned. Sherlock had just walked in.

"Hi," John muttered, looking back at the fire.

"You know, you really shouldn't skip class. It's not like you're clever enough to pass without going."

"Right, and you are."

"Exactly."

John shook his head, but said nothing.

"So are you staying or something? I was hoping to think somewhere that wasn't infested with stupidity."

John turned to Sherlock again, looking at him incredulously. And he'd told Mycroft that he wasn't going to take his advice, that it was mean… but John couldn't help but think that, at the moment, Sherlock deserved a taste of his own fucking medicine. And if Sherlock took the bait and stopped being a dick, great. And if he didn't take it and was fine with John's rejection… then maybe John needed to break it off anyway.

"Yeah, okay then," John said, standing. "Maybe I should make this a stupidity-free zone permanently."

Sherlock looked at him in an uninterested sort of way. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you stay and I go and I don't come back."

Sherlock looked up for a brief moment. "If you'd prefer it that way."

John gaped at him. "You understand the implications of my statement, right?" John asked slowly.

"You forget that I am the one more likely to understand anything in this pair. Yes, I understand. You mean to end our relationship," Sherlock replied. "Whatever you desire."

John was surprised at the near physical pain in his chest at those words. And Sherlock wasn't even bothering to look up from his book.

"Fine," said John, his voice somehow not cracking, but still being far too quiet. "Well… Happy Valentine's Day, then," John added, and he went out the door.

He shuddered in a breath that was threatening to turn into a sob the moment the door closed. What the hell had happened? How had that turned into them breaking up? It was all too fast. Part of him wanted to run back in, beg Sherlock to forget what he said.

But his pride won out as he clenched his fists hard. Sherlock was treating him like utter shit. Why did John need to run back to that? So he'd fallen for the wrong person. It's not like he was the first teenager to do it. Over time, he'd get over it.

Even as he thought it, the pain in his chest increased, and his throat was closing on him and his eyes burned furiously.

"Don't you dare cry, you idiot," John muttered to himself. "Don't you fucking dare."

"John, wait!"

John thought for a moment he'd imagined the cry. And the pounding footsteps that meant someone was running towards him.

"_JOHN_!"

This time, John knew he wasn't making it up. He kept walking for another step before hands seized him from behind, turning him around. Sherlock's eyes were burning, his face intense.

"You didn't seriously mean that," he said. "It was a test. You were supposed to come back."

John gaped at him for a moment before laughing bitterly. "Was it? Well, if it was a test, you failed horribly. Who's stupid now?"

"You're really taking offense to my calling you stupid? Come on, compared to me—"

"First of all, I can't believe you're actually defending why you make me feel horrible about myself. And secondly, no, this is _not_ about that! This is about everything, Sherlock! You're being mean to everyone. You're not talking to me about anything. You're being an absolutely miserable person to be around and I'm not going to stand around and let you treat me like shit!"

"N… none of that's true," said Sherlock.

"What, that you make me feel like I'm not even worth your time constantly by being cruel? Or that you never let me in? Or that you're so mean to everyone around you that nobody can even stand you anymore? That's all bloody well true, Sherlock."

"I… Cruel?"

"Yes, Sherlock, _cruel_. You do nothing but tell me everything that's wrong with me, and trust me, I already know I'm a failure of a human being without you reminding me every few minutes."

Sherlock's mouth was flapping open and closed for a moment, and John actually smiled at the sick pleasure he got at Sherlock's utter shock.

"You're not a failure," said Sherlock.

"Really? I figured you thought it more than anyone."

"No I don't. John, I don't mean any of those things I say. I'm just—"

"Mean for fun? Right."

"I thought you knew I didn't mean any of it."

"I think you mean every word of it."

"But I don't."

"Then why the hell do you say it?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "You never told me not to say it before today."

"Because I let you treat me like this because I wanted this to work, because I think I'm falling in love with you, but none of this is worth it anymore."

"You're… you're what?"

John gave an exasperated sigh. "It doesn't matter now, does it?"

John turned on his heel to walk away.

"John, please."

John stopped in his tracks at the strange, child-like whimper that couldn't have come from Sherlock's mouth. He turned slowly and saw Sherlock looking onto John with a face that much matched the voice, quivering and fragile.

"I—I didn't mean—I'm sorry," Sherlock finished feebly.

John's anger flushed away as quickly as it had come, and he had to use all his willpower not to run back over to Sherlock. He walked over and took Sherlock's face in his hands. Sherlock looked down at him, the pale eyes shining with pain.

"I know you're hurting, Sherlock. I know what you've been lately isn't really you. But you have to let me in so I can try to help or there's no point in me hanging around. I know you said you didn't want to take advice from a painting, but this painting happens to be of the most brilliant wizard who ever lived, so maybe you should consider his warning. Tell me what's going on with you. Let me help. Together, we'll get through this, whatever it is."

Sherlock's chest was heaving with breathing that was obviously very controlled. Trying to keep himself calm. But still, Sherlock looked so close to tears that John thought for a moment he might see the great genius cry for the second time.

"I shouldn't need help," said Sherlock. "I should be stronger than this."

"Sherlock, your soul is being tormented because you tortured someone who didn't deserve it. I'm pretty sure even you aren't above that kind of pain."

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment. "Whether you're right or not… I can't lose you. I had that torturous minute where you didn't come back, and I really thought you were gone… I panicked. I realised that no matter if it makes me weak or not, I _need_ you."

John rested his forehead against Sherlock's, his hands still on either side of his face. But now Sherlock's hands moved to John's waist, wrapping around it tentatively.

"I need you too," John said. "It may be stupid, but you're kind of the best thing that ever happened to me. Somehow."

His face got sad once more. "Even though I make you feel horrible about yourself?" asked Sherlock.

"You don't usually," said John. "Actually, you used to make me much more confident. But lately… well, I'm willing to forget all the shit that's happened in the past few weeks. Under one condition."

"This condition is going to involve heart-to-hearts and feelings, isn't it?"

John smirked. "Yes. You're going to talk to me about how you've been feeling, and we're going to work through it."

"Yes, okay," muttered Sherlock. "I guess I can manage that."

"Good," replied John, getting on his toes so he could press his lips to Sherlock's in a lingering, long-awaited kiss. "God, I've missed kissing you these past weeks."

"Me too," Sherlock admitted.

"Then why were you being such a prat?"

"Because it was the only way to shut you out."

"Well don't do it again," said John.

"I won't," said Sherlock.

John smiled. "Good. Well, we've got to get to our next classes soon. You know, because I'm too stupid to skip."

"I didn't mean that," Sherlock sighed. "Even _you_ can go a day without Binns."

John rolled his eyes and smiled, elbowing Sherlock. "I thought you were being nice."

"That was nice," he replied, holding back his dry grin.

"Shut up," John laughed.

They started to walk downstairs so they could get to their classes.

"Is today really Valentine's Day?" asked Sherlock.

"Yeah," John replied. "Tomorrow is the Valentine's Hogsmeade trip, and then next week is the second Gryffindor game."

"So we almost broke up on Valentine's Day. That would have been ironic."

"Well, I think our relationship is full of ironic, so it wouldn't have been that odd. But I'd rather we not break up any time soon."

"I think I'd prefer we just didn't break up ever," Sherlock corrected.

John bit back a flattered smile. "I guess I could deal with that." He grabbed Sherlock's hand, glad to feel it there in his again. "So our first therapy session is tonight," added John.

"So soon?"

"Yes, Sherlock," John said, exasperated. "I'm not letting this get any worse."

"It's not like I'm dying or something."

"No, your soul is just rotting with evil."

"Something like that," Sherlock agreed nonchalantly.

John felt amazingly better now that Sherlock was more or less being himself again, but that really wasn't much improvement. He still was worried to death something was permanently wrong with Sherlock, and that Moriarty was going to start some evil plan soon. He still didn't know what he was going to do about it.

But at least now he had Sherlock to help.

* * *

**So I'm sorry to say this, since you all have been so pleased at my fast updates, but it's about time I slow down. I've got classes to do, and I've been neglecting them for this story, as I always do. So I don't know how much time there will be between updates, could be the same as it already is some days, could be longer other days, but there will never be more than a week, I promise. That's my policy with all my stories. So if I take longer than a week, feel free to PM me naggingly and tell me to hurry the fuck up, because I never plan to take that long. I only EVER take that long if I'm reaaallllly busy or if I've gotten distracted by another story idea. **

**Anywho, hope you're enjoying so far and that you continue to do so. Thank you so much for the favourites and reviews, I've appreciated them. So go ahead and leave more reviews too! Teehee. Okay, I'll shut up now. Thanks again. **


	28. Chapter 28: The Chocolate Frog Card

**Okay, so this chapter was meant to be longer, but I had to say something to you guys, so I'm posting it like this. A reader, _IWasTheMadOne,_ informed me that for some time, the content of chapter 25 was the same as that of 22. It's been fixed now, and I'm sorry that happened. From now on, can we all agree to TELL ME when madness like this happens? Thanks! : ]**

**So yes, this chapter is mildly action-light, sorry about that. It's entertaining though, in my humble opinion.**

* * *

It was three days after Valentine's Day when John finally picked up Sherlock's journal to read it.

Before that, he'd been distracted by sex or torturing his best friend or all the professors in the school being under the Imperius curse or Sherlock's soul being tainted. You know, the little things.

But now Sherlock was doing better. John spent most of the weekend getting him to talk about what he was feeling. And, god, John didn't envy him. Sherlock described it as a strange heaviness that was constantly on his chest, and a sensation like he was burning on the inside. It might sound weird, but hearing Sherlock say it, John believed it. And when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Molly writhing. And sometimes he felt like he heard her screaming… or John sobbing. That had affected him too, apparently. And John understood why it made Sherlock so damn snippy. If John were going through that all the time, he'd probably want to bite a few heads off too.

And, just as the Dumbledore painting had told them, the moment Sherlock started talking about it, he started to feel better. Especially when he talked to Molly, he said. Like being kind to her would make up for what he did. So now he was so nice to her that John was just a tad afraid she might really fall in love with him. But she seemed to like them together now, and seemed to be getting over her crush a bit, so probably that wouldn't happen.

But anyway. John was in his History of Magic class Monday morning, and he knew he'd be bored to death (though he'd been able to rewrite his essay so it didn't suck, luckily). So he had brought the journal with him. He skimmed through the first letter once more, smiling as he read it. then he went to the first page.

_This morning I awoke and was thinking about you immediately. I'm not just saying that to boost your ego, I promise you. The second I was conscious, it was you on my mind. Actually, specifically, I was thinking "Why am I sleeping in the dormitories when I could sleep next to John in the Room of Requirement?" I figure later today, I will suggest that very thing._

_The moment after that, I started thinking about blood toxicity content when…_

John rolled his eyes at some of the things Sherlock put down. Because really, some of it didn't mean a thing to John, but still he read every word three times. Like he knew a thing about bruises that form on a dead body, or the exact affects that cocaine has on the human brain. But John wondered how many mystery novels Sherlock secretly read on his free time from the random things that went through his head. He always knew Sherlock liked a good mystery, but he had no idea he was so fascinated by forensic science. It was almost a shame that, as a wizard, he most likely wouldn't go into the profession, because he'd make a great detective.

Mostly, John was flattered by how often Sherlock spoke of John going through his head. Somehow, it had surprised John, though maybe it shouldn't have. In one entry, Sherlock explained it like this:

_I don't spend a great deal of time lingering on one specific thing when I think, ordinarily. Unless it's some great mystery, of course. Otherwise, I am – as you know – quite easily bored. But you… I could sit for ages and ponder you. Try to name the exact colour of your eyes. Plot out the curve of your lips on a graph. Memorise the feel of your skin next to mine. Your great kindness and bravery, two traits I could never wish to possess in the same way you do – actually, two traits I never appreciated until I saw them in you. I never thought I would find a person that was so interesting to me. But you are somewhat of a puzzle to me, John, because in some ways you are so ordinary. So why can't I ever stop thinking of you? Why do you never bore me? Even I have not figured out the answer to that yet. _

John was halfway through when class ended. John met Sherlock outside of class, who was there as always. He stooped down and planted a kiss on John's cheek before they began to walk. Something that was kind of routine for them, but that made John blush like a silly kid every time Sherlock did it.

"You're reading the journal?" Sherlock marveled. "Aren't you getting enough of my feelings right now?"

"I could never get enough of hearing what you think."

"Then do you want to hear what I think right now?" he asked.

"Of course," John replied.

"You have Longbottom for Herbology next."

"Yes," John replied, even though it wasn't a question. Sherlock had known his schedule since the first day, somehow.

"I have him on Thursdays and Fridays. And I've noticed something peculiar about him lately."

"You mean like all the teachers?" asked John. For the past few weeks, since John was now aware of it, he could see the signs that they were under the Imperius Curse. It was hard to know how many of them truly were, but all of John's professors seemed… off lately. He now knew why.

"No, not like the other teachers," replied Sherlock. "That's exactly the thing. He seems the same as always. I'm starting to think he's not under the curse at all."

"But he's a strong willed professor. An ex-Auror. How could Moriarty afford not having him on his side?"

"But what you just said explains it, doesn't it? Remember, the curse can be fought by a strong enough person. An ex-Auror Hero of Hogwarts would hardly be the type to get thwarted by an Imperius Curse, don't you agree?"

"So you're saying that, other than McGonagall herself, Professor Longbottom might be the only professor in the school not under Moriarty's control?"

"Yes."

"Okay… so how do we make sure?"

"That's what I'm trying to think of. Give me a moment to think."

John let Sherlock ponder in silence as they walked down the steps to go out to the vegetable patches. John didn't mention that Sherlock needed to get to his own class (which was actually with Moriarty). Sherlock didn't like to be interrupted while he thought, not even for class.

"I've got it," said Sherlock after a minute.

"Alright, tell me."

"When someone is under the Imperius Curse, they feel intense relaxation and even elation, so much so that feelings of anger or pain don't really register. That's how I knew that Pomfrey's under the curse, she's been in far too good a mood lately. So I think that if you either taunt Longbottom, or cause him pain somehow, you'll be able to tell pretty readily if he's under the curse or not."

"So… you want me to make fun of and/or injure a _professor_? Are you out of your bloody mind?"

"It's for the greater good, John."

"Fine, then you do it."

"I don't have him until Thursday. We mustn't dally, John. Remember, Molly's life is at stake here."

John grumbled for a moment. "Alright, try to piss off Longbottom, got it."

"If you can illicit any unpleasant reaction out of him, he's probably not under the curse."

"What if he's just not under it right now? It could be Moriarty doesn't want them all like that constantly."

"All the other professors seem to be under it pretty constantly," Sherlock disagreed.

"Yes, maybe."

"And today I will go visit Professor Hagrid and do the same."

"You think he's okay too?"

"I'm not sure it's possible to perform an Imperius curse on a half giant."

"Good point. But once we figure it out, what are we supposed to do? Tell them about Moriarty's plans?"

Sherlock began to speak, but John didn't hear it, because at that moment he heard strange, muffled speaking. For a moment, he thought it might be his Harpies pin and Molly was speaking to him, but the voice sounded male, not female, and seemed to be sounding from his book bag. He opened the bag.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, slight irritation in his voice at being ignored.

"Something's making noise in my bag. Like talking or something."

"Yes, that's me," replied the voice inside John's bag.

John dug through his bag and came upon the thing that was speaking after a moment. One of his Chocolate Frog cards.

"Dumbledore?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes, hello. My, it's nice to see something other than the inside of your bag. Not to be rude, but it's rather dull in there."

"I didn't know Chocolate Frog card portraits could talk."

"They can, they just rarely choose to," said Dumbledore. "But I figured it was about time we speak."

"Okay…" John muttered, lowering his voice because of the weird glances he was getting from passerby at the fact that he was talking to his own hand.

"Minerva has seen the memories, and she is making preparations as best as she can. She's keeping Molly under surveillance. She thinks it is not wise to make a public move against Moriarty if he's really got all the professors in the school under his curse. I should not say anything more, as not to betray her trust."

"But, Dumbledore, why are you even telling us this much?" asked John. "It's not like it's technically our business. We're just a couple of kids."

"In my quite considerable amount of life experience, and even some death experience too, I've found that 'just a couple of kids' can change the world quite easily, if only they have the will."

"But you knew Harry Potter," said John dismally. "I'm nothing like that."

"Harry Potter was not, in his youth, an extraordinary person, not really. He is still, in many ways, quite average. It is his courage and his heart that set him apart, John Watson, and those two things you have in excess. And Sherlock Holmes is clever and cunning. Together, with some of your other friends too, you will succeed."

"But what makes it our responsibility to save everyone?" asked John.

"You already know the answer to that."

"Because we saw it first?"

"Partly. And because you know, somewhere inside, that you are the only ones who _can_ fix this."

"Okay, yeah, Sherlock's amazing, we know that, but I think you give me too much credit," replied John.

"No," said Sherlock, speaking for the first time in this conversation, "you just don't give yourself _enough_ credit."

John looked up with a little half a smile at the praise, and momentarily got lost in Sherlock's eyes. That happened to him sometimes, he couldn't help it.

"Oh, young love," said Dumbledore. "I do love it, even in death."

John looked down at the card with a hard blush. "Erm…" he muttered.

"Oh, what, do you think it might bother me that you love another boy? You may find my world views aren't quite so narrow, Mr Watson." There was a twinkle in his eye like he was telling some private joke that John didn't understand.

"Oh… well then thanks, I guess," he said awkwardly. "But I've got to go to class or Longbottom will be cross with me."

Dumbledore's little painting gave a smile. "I _am_ glad he decided to be a professor after all. I always thought he should be." A pensive pause before adding, "Maybe we shall speak again next time I eavesdrop."

"I hope so," replied John earnestly. He really did like Dumbledore, even if he was only a picture of a dead guy.

Then Dumbledore walked out of the picture. John put the card back in his bag, but put it in a small pocket instead of letting it tumble to the bottom and get crushed by books like before.

"So, time to piss off a professor, then," said John mockingly, smirking.

Sherlock smiled down at him, both fond and patronising simultaneously.

"You'll do great," said Sherlock, swooping down to give him a quick kiss.

Then John seized the sides of his face, letting his fingers dig into the dark curls, and he kissed him harder for a long moment.

Sherlock looked surprised when he pulled away.

"Sorry, couldn't help myself," said John timidly.

"No…" Sherlock said with a startled grin, "It's fine."

"We haven't slept together in a month, you know," added John nonchalantly.

"That's true," Sherlock said. "It's been far too long."

John bit his lip, looking up at Sherlock with an eyebrow cocked. "Well I'm rather busy right now, so I can't at the moment. See, my boyfriend's given me a possibly dangerous task to finish."

"Has he? Sounds like a prat."

"Oh, he is," John agreed. At that he smiled and walked past him, nudging his shoulder playfully as he went.


	29. Chapter 29: The Overdone Injury

**The second half of the last chapter. Sorry it's short, it was all intended to be a single chapter originally. **

* * *

John walked into Herbology with an intense feeling of trepidation. This really was going to end up as a lose/lose situation. Either he figured out that Professor Longbottom was under the Imperius Curse of a man that hated Muggleborns—one of which John happened to be—or otherwise he'd make Longbottom quite cross by either insulting or hurting him. The one thing he could be glad for, however, was the fact that he'd rather be on Longbottom's bad side than Hagrid's. John didn't envy Sherlock's task, for he was more difficult to injure, and supposedly prone to crying like a baby when upset.

So, John was trying to think of ways to cause negative reactions in another people without being totally rude. Maybe 'insulted' and 'injured' were too extreme of choices. What about 'disappointed'? Or maybe 'alarmed'. Well, that didn't sound better, necessarily, but if John 'accidentally' endangered his classmates with a carnivorous plant, Longbottom was less likely to take it personally.

John usually was next to Judy in this class, but nonchalantly took a place across the greenhouse from her, afraid of the measures he might have to take to displease the professor. He didn't want Judy caught in the crossfire.

But then, unfortunately, today was one of the very few days where the plant was utterly non-violent. They were being taught to juice hellebore, which was used in the Draught of Peace. While the plant was indeed poisonous, it had no reason to go attacking anyone, as it was not sentient. So John really couldn't hurt someone with it without it being obvious he did it on purpose.

New plan. John was one of Longbottom's favourite students, as he was quite good at Herbology. If he just was really horrible at everything today, would he be disappointed?

So they were taught to do the juicing, and it was unbelievably simple. Even the least competent of students could figure it out. So John had to get creative with being bad at it. He dropped his knife more than once, and let the plant slip onto the floor too, and when he got bored of dropping things, just plain rested his head on his hand. But Longbottom didn't pay him any mind, and thus couldn't reprimand him for not paying attention for a long while.

Finally, he came over.

"John, you haven't done anything," he said in surprise.

"I just don't understand how to do this, professor," said John somberly, maybe hamming it up more than he needed to.

"Oh, that's alright," said Longbottom with a smile. "We'll be doing this again on Wednesday, I'm sure you'll have it by then."

_Damn it_, John internally cursed.

John was playing with the plant in front of him mournfully for the rest of the hour, having utterly failed in his quest to raise some negative emotion in his professor. How embarrassing it would be when he had to tell Sherlock he couldn't do it.

The thought of having to do that made John more determined than ever.

And the thought came to him quickly, right when class was about to end, and he knew it was genius. He acted on it before giving it a second thought.

So he took the knife and came down on his finger hard.

He cried out, and the blood poured out more profusely than he expected.

The Hufflepuff next to him glanced over and saw the gore and fainted. That was when Longbottom noticed.

"John!" he yelled. "God, where's your head at today?" he said, and John internally rejoiced. That was annoyance, no doubt about it. Mingled with worry for John. And all he'd had to do was give himself a little cut to cause it. Easy.

"JOHN!" screeched Judy. "You've cut your finger clean off!"

John looked down at it, blinking. Alas, the tip of his finger was gone.

Maybe he was in shock, or just so glad he was sure that Longbottom was not under the curse, because all he said was, "Oh. So I have."

"Grab the finger. To Madam Pomfrey's with you," said Longbottom, irritation in his voice still. "The rest of you, dismissed."

John walked with Longbottom though the grounds.

"John, what the hell is going on?" asked the professor.

"What? My hand slipped."

"I'd believe that, except you were being frankly pathetic all class long. It's like you were doing it on purpose."

"Are you proposing I cut my finger off on purpose?" asked John.

"I've known Gryffindors to do weirder, if only for a good cause."

"What good cause would I have to cut my finger off, professor?"

"I don't know," replied Longbottom. "But this whole school's been strange lately; I don't know _what_ to think anymore."

That proved it even more. If he were under the Curse, he never would have mentioned how bizarre everyone was acting.

John was nervous to go up to the hospital wing at first, since Pomfrey was under the Curse. But she was, if anything, more pleasant than usual because of it—as Sherlock had mentioned earlier that day—so it wasn't too bad. His finger was back on quickly.

"Just be more careful, John," was Longbottom's admonition before leaving the wing. John was allowed to leave soon after, as a decapitated finger was really no big deal at all when you had magic to fix injuries.

John walked out of the wing and was meet nearly immediately by Sherlock.

"Hey," said John casually, acting like Sherlock's presence at this side of the castle didn't imply that he knew what happened.

"John, you _cut off_ your _finger_?" he asked incredulously.

"I didn't mean to cut it off," said John in his own defense. "I just meant to get a pretty good cut… but I pressed down too hard, I guess."

"John…" Sherlock asked, something between amazement and exasperation in his voice. "You're a complete idiot."

"True," agreed John, "but at least I know Longbottom's Curse-free."

"As is Hagrid. I had only to bring up his long dead pet Acromantula Aragog and he was reduced to tears. And then, a moment later, stubbed his toe on a table and let out a great many curses."

"So what good does this do us though, really?" asked John.

"It gives us allies to rely on if the worst should happen."

"And what's the worst that could happen?" asked John apprehensively.

Sherlock didn't respond.


	30. Chapter 30: The Vacant Match

It was Friday night and he and Sherlock had been playing wizard's chess for hours in the Room of Requirement.

"Check mate," said Sherlock uninterestedly.

"Damn it, you only gave me three turns that time," John complained.

"That's how long it took."

"Well pretend it takes longer then," John protested.

"You told me to stop going easy on you," Sherlock said blandly. "This is me not going easy on you."

"Well I didn't actually mean it."

"Then don't say things you don't mean."

"It's what people do."

"I don't," Sherlock retorted.

"Sure you do."

"Like when?"

"Like when you want me to leave you alone, you're mean on purpose and lie to piss me off. Or when you say you're fine and I know you're not."

A pause. "That's different."

"No it isn't." Before Sherlock could deny it, John added, "So why are you doing this? Playing games with me? You must be trying to butter me up for something."

"Why would you think that?" asked Sherlock nonchalantly.

"See, you're lying again."

"Technically, I just asked why you would think that. I didn't answer your question."

"So answer it."

A sigh. "I don't think you should play tomorrow."

"Wait, what?"

"After what happened at the last match—"

"I can't just skip."

"But what if he tries something again? You could die, John," said Sherlock, his voice annoyingly reasonable.

"Yeah, and Molly could die just going to class, but you don't see her skipping Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you're trying to prove you're brave, it's not necessary. You're brave on the edge of stupid, I'm very aware."

"Thanks," said John dryly, getting up and stripping off his robe and shirt so he could get into bed.

"John... I only mean to say... John, I'm only concerned about you. That's all."

"Well thanks. Really. But I've got to play."

Sherlock said nothing, just got up and also removed a few layers, then lay next to John on the bed.

"But really," John said, "what's Moriarty waiting for?"

Sherlock sighed. "I don't know. The pieces to fall where he wants them, I suppose. The opportune moment."

"Then what will he do?"

"Most likely get rid of McGonagall, Hagrid, and Longbottom."

"And then when he takes over... You think he'll just kill us Muggleborns right there?"

Sherlock went stock still against John's back.

"Sorry, shouldn't have said it that way."

"I won't let him hurt you, John." His voice was more passionate than John expected, and somehow, John believed him.

"I know you won't."

And with Sherlock's chest pressed against his back, he fell asleep.

* * *

In the morning, Sherlock had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something like intuition telling him that something was going to go horribly, horribly wrong today.

In the middle of the night a few days before, Sherlock had gone on a bit of an errand. He'd managed not to wake John up somehow as he did it, and now, as John got ready for his game, and the bad feeling was weighing on Sherlock like a ton of rocks, he knew it was time.

"John, I got you something," said Sherlock.

John turned with that smile of his that made Sherlock almost forget what he was thinking for half a moment. "Really? What?"

And Sherlock pulled out the gift. John looked down at it in confusion.

"It's a wand."

"No, it's a Zonkos wand. It's fake."

"Okay…"

"I'd like you to carry it around."

"Why?"

Sherlock figured he shouldn't actually answer that. It might make John angry. But the real reason was that Sherlock really had a horrid feeling that something bad was going to happen, and he had gotten an idea. What if Moriarty decided to take all the wands from the Muggleborns? It wouldn't be a surprising move. So if John had a fake wand on him at all times, if he was ever asked to hand over his wand, he could give the fake one so he still had his real one.

"Please, John, will you just do this for me?"

John looked at him probingly for a moment, but then took the wand from his hand. "Alright, alright, I'll do it."

"Thank you," Sherlock said in relief. "Oh, but be careful," he added, "If you actually try to do a spell with it, it'll give you a black eye."

"Great," John muttered, putting it inside his robes. "Come on, let's get down to breakfast."

* * *

Molly met the two of them the moment they got down to the Great Hall. Ever since the whole business with getting back her memory, she'd been around them almost constantly. Sherlock knew it was because of one of two reasons (or maybe both): 1) her trust in them had increased since the whole ordeal and she felt closer to them, leading her to want to spend more time with them, and 2) she knew that, of anyone in the school, they were the ones who could protect her, because they were the only ones who knew of her plight. Though, technically, McGonagall knew as well and was supposedly keeping Molly under surveillance, if the painting of the late Albus Dumbledore was to be trusted. But Molly didn't know that and Sherlock presumed that even if she did, it wouldn't make her feel much safer. Sherlock and John were something physical to have around to make her feel protected. Sherlock knew people preferred the palpable over the intangible.

Sherlock used to be a little annoyed by Molly, if only because of her dullness, but he'd changed his mind about her ever since the ordeal. First of all, the constant heaviness on his chest now felt much better when he was being kind to her. And secondly, anyone who was willing to endure torture just to get a memory back was anything but boring. So he savoured these moments before Lestrade was bound to join them—not because he disliked Lestrade, but that Lestrade always brought Mycroft along with him. Everyone—even John—could not understand why Sherlock disliked his brother so thoroughly. Though, ironically, just that was part of the reason. Mycroft could get anyone to like him just by giving an unctuous smile. But on the inside, Mycroft was just as unapproachable, omniscient, and cunning as he had always been, but his relationship with Lestrade made everyone stop thinking so.

"I'm worried," said Molly the moment she sat down.

"Has something happened?" asked John quickly, concern in his voice. Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes. John had a way of letting his emotions get in the way of his mind. Of course something hadn't happened. Molly wouldn't be nearly so calm if something had.

"That's just it," she replied. "Nothing's happened. They threatened to _kill_ me and I feel as safe as always."

They were both looking at Sherlock as if he might be able to shed some light on the situation.

He had a theory on that, actually… one that was so bad he knew the other two would panic if he even voiced it. His theory, the one he found most likely, was that he wasn't even bothering with killing Molly anymore because he was so close to achieving his goal that it didn't even matter if Molly told on him or not. Either way, he'd win.

Sherlock just wished he knew exactly what Moriarty planned to do. He didn't know how to stop it because he couldn't fathom what he had planned. There were just too many options. It was impossible to narrow it down without knowing more about Moriarty himself, which Sherlock had so far been irritatingly unsuccessful with. It was hard to learn anything about a professor, especially one who was trying to be discreet anyway.

He realised he'd gone on thinking while the other two were still looking at him. "They're waiting for the opportune moment," said Sherlock, repeating what he'd told John the night before.

"Maybe…" John replied, looking thoughtful.

"But don't worry, Molly," Sherlock added, almost without consciously meaning to, "we're looking out for you."

She smiled, looking a little surprised. But really, Sherlock couldn't help but be nice to her now. when he was mean, somehow the sound of her screaming found his eardrums, so it's not like he had much choice.

Sherlock then glanced over to John, who was still looking pensive. Sherlock still hated the thought of John playing today, but he wasn't under the impression that Moriarty was just trying to kill random students anymore. Now that he had the professors under his control, he could take them all at once. Sherlock figured he was going to be as discreet as he could, not actually killing anyone, but maybe keeping them under close watch once he had the un-cursed professors out of the way. What if parents sent owls and got no response? Suspicions would rise and someone would know what was going on, or at least send a Ministry official to try to figure it out.

Then Greg and Mycroft appeared, unfortunately followed by Sally Donovan. Sherlock knew she always came over on Quidditch days, because she and Anderson would murder each other if they even spoke on those days, but he'd rather hoped she might decide not to show up this time. A vain hope, of course.

"You know, John, there are lots of hobbies out there," she said the moment she sat down. It was her new habit when she was around John to list plausible alternatives to spending time with Sherlock.

"Sally, I don't want to hear it."

"Try knitting," she suggested, ignoring John's protest. "Or perfect your Bat-Bogey Hex."

"Really, shut up," complained John. "I swear I'll get up and leave."

"As long as—"

"And Sherlock would come with me," John interrupted.

"Really, give it a rest," agreed Lestrade, enforcing why Sherlock even liked him. "It's not like you spend any time with John anymore, so it seems Sherlock's a better friend to him than you are."

That shut her up, thankfully.

There wasn't much more time after that, and Sherlock mostly ignored everyone, but for a few glances from both John and Molly that seemed concerned. As if Sherlock didn't often go quiet. He eventually gave John his hand under the table, just so he'd stop looking worried. John being worried about Sherlock, when Sherlock was just quiet because he was worried about John. The pointless circles of sentiment. How had he been sucked into feelings like this?

John was eventually whisked away with the rest of his team, and Molly was at his side.

"You're worried something's going to happen to him during the game," she said.

It was one of the many times he was surprised at her deductive abilities. "He's a Muggleborn. He's a prime target."

"Maybe, but he's tried it before. With that broom last time."

Sherlock looked down at her. "You knew that wasn't an accident?"

"Once we figured out about Moriarty, I put the pieces together," she said. Sherlock didn't respond before she added, "John can take care of himself. He'll be okay."

Sherlock sighed. "Of course," he said, because he wasn't going to show his true weakness by saying anything else.

Too bad Molly saw right through him. "You worry about him a lot," she said. He was silent. "You always look so sad when you think he's not looking. Especially now, but I don't know if that's for him or because of what happened in the forest."

Sherlock really didn't like how much she was proving she knew in this conversation. What else had she deduced?

"If really affected you, didn't it?" asked Molly. "It still does. I can see it."

Sherlock figured it was time to reply. "I should have guessed what torturing an innocent soul might do to someone," he said nonchalantly.

"I just think it's strange, because it doesn't affect me at all anymore. All the affects were physical, and those just lasted a few days. I don't wake up with nightmares, but it seems you do. It doesn't seem a fair tradeoff."

"Maybe not," Sherlock said, "but that may well be the point. It'll make me think twice before doing it again."

She nodded. "Well, I don't think I ever said it, but thank you. Really, this'll sound entirely mad, but I've felt so much better ever since. Not knowing was what was killing me. But there's this sense of… clarity in my life right now. I don't even mind that John's taken you anymore. It's not like I ever had a chance."

Sherlock glanced down at her, feeling a pit in his stomach at her words. Probably mostly the feeling he naturally got related to Molly mostly, but he felt he had to say something. "If anyone in this establishment were to have a chance other than John, it would be you."

She smiled up at him, genuine and sweet. "And that's good enough for me. But come on, let's get a seat."

Molly didn't even pretend to be rooting for her own House and sat with the Gryffindors, which got her a glare or two, but she was really only there to support John, it seemed. In fact, she hardly noticed the looks. Molly really was more confident lately. Had the torture somehow… improved her? It seemed unlikely and peculiar, but somehow it raised the darkness from Sherlock's chest just a little more.

The game began and Sherlock did not pay attention to a single second of it. At first, it was because he was watching John.

But then he realised something., Across from where he sat was the stands where professors were supposed to sit.

And it was nearly empty.

Not ever professor went to every game, that much was true, but in this case, only three professors had shown up.

I'll give you three guesses on which of them it was.

Then Sherlock's anxiety peaked. Nothing good could come from all the professors being gone if they were all under Moriarty's control. Sherlock didn't feel the need to watch John anymore, because nobody who wanted to hurt him was even there. All his worries were now based in the fact that something was going on and none of the students knew. The non-Cursed professors didn't.

Which seemed unlikely. How could McGonagall not know?

Sherlock, on an impulse, turned to Lestrade. "I need a Chocolate Frog," he said.

He raised an eyebrow. He always had them on him, so he probably didn't find it strange that it wasn't a question, but still, the question was weird enough for him to pause. "You have a fondness for chocolate now?"

"Please, just trust me, it's important."

"Yeah, okay then," Lestrade said with a smile that clearly said 'wow, you're fucking weird'.

"What's going on?" whispered Molly.

"Come on," he said. The two of them stood and walked to the back of the Ravenclaw stands, where it was vacant. "Something's going on," said Sherlock. "There's hardly any teachers here."

Molly looked over. "You're right, that is strange."

"I'm hoping I'm lucky," continued Sherlock, "and this'll be a Dumbledore card, and I then I can speak to him."

"I wouldn't be surprised if it was," said Molly, "half of them are."

"Then I've got a good chance."

"But—" Molly started, but Sherlock held his hand up, and then ripped open the chocolate.

"A Harry Potter," he said angrily, letting the frog hop away.

"Well—"

"Of course it's a Harry Potter, just when I need a—"

Molly, at not being allowed to speak, just pulled something out of her pocket.

A Dumbledore card.

Before Sherlock could say anything, she explained, "I've been carrying one around ever since John told me they can talk, just in case."

"Molly, you're brilliant," said Sherlock, which led Molly to blush as he took the card. "Dumbledore," he hissed at the card.

The figure appeared quickly. "You're concerned that something's going to happen today."

"How'd you know?" asked Molly.

"Firstly, I have quite a lot of portraits in quite a lot of places, meaning I hear quite a lot of things. Secondly, because Minerva is similarly concerned."

"That's what I was wondering," said Sherlock. "She has a plan?"

"Minerva is a great witch. I do not doubt she has a plan."

"But you don't know it."

"She doesn't say her thoughts aloud for my benefit, Mr Holmes," said Dumbledore with a small smile.

Sherlock scowled at him for a moment. "I wish she did," he said.

"I'm sure all will turn out fine."

"Easy for you to say, you're dead."

"Sherlock," Molly scolded, "don't be rude!"

"No, Ms Hooper, it's quite the truth. But that does not mean I do not care about what happens to this school even from the afterlife, Mr Holmes. I bid you remember that."

And he walked out of the card.

"See, you upset him," said Molly.

"No matter," said Sherlock, "he told me what he knows."

"So what do we do now?"

"We wait," said Sherlock.

"I don't like the sound of that."

"There's nothing else to do," replied Sherlock.

She sighed and nodded, taking a seat right there in the empty part of the stands, not seeming to feel social anymore. Now she saw how Sherlock felt all the time. Knowing too much made life hard to enjoy most of the time.

Sherlock gazed at the clueless John on the pitch, who was in great form today, he realised, laughing as he played. Gryffindor was winning by fifty.

But Sherlock had a feeling the victory would be short-lived.


	31. Chapter 31: The Unbeatable Ambush

John had almost been hoping Yancey was still out with useless arm syndrome, because he was playing horribly that day. Greg had done much better, and he was the reserve player. But, then again, John wasn't glad Yancey had been cursed purely based on the fact that he was a Muggleborn, and by a professor no less, so maybe it was good that he was back and okay. He'd been moved to St Mungos over the break and they had fixed the problem.

Plus, it didn't matter that he was letting in every goal, because Gryffindor was just playing better. They were still fifty points ahead, because the Chasers were simply superb today.

And then, before John even knew what had happened, the Gryffindor side of the crowd erupted into cheers. He looked around in confusion, but then saw Taylor with his hand in the air, showing off the Snitch he had just caught. John let out a jubilant yell and flew over to his fellow beater Stamford to give him a high five.

John looked over to Sherlock with a grin on his face, but couldn't find him at first. He'd been sitting by Greg originally… where had he gone? He scanned the area and found that he and Molly were sitting in the Ravenclaw stands, far away from anyone else… and the grin slipped off John's face. Something was wrong. Without considering whether it was allowed or not, he flew over to the stands, scaring a few innocent Ravenclaws as he swooped right over their heads.

John expected Hooch to yell at him, until he realised that Hooch wasn't even there that day. She had a student refereeing for her that day.

In fact, it didn't seem like there were many professors at the game at all.

By the time John had landed next to Sherlock and Molly, he understood the concern on their faces.

"Where are all the professors?" asked John as he got off his broom.

"I don't know," said Sherlock, "but somehow I doubt they're having a tea party, don't you?"

Oh, the horrible things John imagined they might be doing. The plans they were concocting, all different in strategy, but the same in nature: get rid of the Mudbloods. John had never felt like his blood was truly _dirty_ before then, but suddenly it could very well get him killed. He wished for the first time his stupid father had never left so he knew whether or not he was a wizard.

The rest of his team was celebrating their victory, and John was feeling a dark heaviness filter into him, making the match, the pitch, the kids, the school all feel far off, like they were crumbling away from him. They were all gleeful children reveling in their game, excited whether they were rooting for the winning or the losing team, not understanding that after today, it wouldn't matter who won this game. John felt like the end of the world was on his doorstep, and nobody else had any idea.

"Sherlock, what're we going to do?" asked John, his voice coming out more weakly than he intended it.

John knew Sherlock's answer before he said it because of how irritated he looked to utter it. "I don't know," he finally said.

"Well… maybe it's nothing," said Molly.

They both looked at her doubtfully.

"Okay, not nothing, but maybe it's not like some big thing is happening today. Maybe they just wanted to meet when the school was empty. Maybe we still have time."

Molly's suggestion wasn't out of the question, but John was past having that kind of hope. They were out of time—and apparently the time they'd been given, they'd somehow wasted, because now that the apocalypse had arrived, they didn't have a single idea of how to do to stop it.

Molly must have seen the lack of hope on their faces, because that light in her eyes seemed to go out too, and both she and Sherlock were looking at him with that stupid look of concern he was starting to really hate. Nobody wanted to mention aloud that if the plan to take over the school was happening today, John could be dead before sunset. He could've been planning to just kill all the Muggleborns, for all they knew. Sherlock said he doubted it, but that didn't take it off the list as a possibility.

That was around the time when the students all started to filter out of the stands. The three of them stood there for another moment, just looking at each other, before going to catch up to Mycroft and Greg.

"Something's going on," Mycroft hissed to Sherlock the moment they caught up. "You've known about it for ages, and I haven't bothered you about it, but now the secrecy needs to end."

Greg looked really confused, and John felt bad that he was the only one out of the loop.

"Not right now, Mycroft," said Sherlock. "There're students everywhere."

"Sherlock, I have a feeling this can't wait."

John agreed—a sibling rivalry wasn't worth keeping Mycroft in the dark—but couldn't bring himself to say anything. It was a horrible thing to think and he knew it, but Mycroft didn't have to worry. He was a Slytherin Pureblood. He'd thrive under a Moriarty regime. Even Sherlock couldn't say that, because even though he was a Pureblood, he'd dated a Muggleborn, and surely Moriarty wouldn't like that. He also wasn't a Slytherin, which didn't help either.

They were almost walking without meaning to, because so many students were surging in around them that they were forced to move. He was getting congratulations from Gryffindors, but he could hardly even hear it. He didn't bother to respond, or even pretend to be listening. The progression towards the school was slow, but John still noticed when it slowed down even more. He stained his head to see, but he was too short.

"Sherlock—" John started, but he didn't need to ask the question, because Sherlock flicked his wand at John's face with some spell, and the people around him, though he could still feel and hear them, seemed to become transparent except for a vague outline so he could see the shapes of the people. Must've been a spell he created, because he'd never seen anything like it. But he had very little time to marvel at it, because now he could see why everyone was slowing down.

Up ahead, the missing teachers were found. They were standing in a line, Moriarty in front. Even though the other students had no idea there was anything to fear before this moment, the stances of the teachers, the looks on their faces and their wands hanging from their grips at their sides, seemed to make them all apprehensive.

John glanced around at his friends. Sherlock's face was as blank as always, and his older brother's matched it perfectly. Molly was looking up at him too in fear—she must have had Sherlock's spell on her eyes too, because she was shorter than John. Greg just looked confused, and maybe a little nervous, like he could feel something wasn't right—the way most of students were.

"What's happening?" asked McGonagall gruffly. "Why have you all stopped?"

Nobody seemed to know how to answer her. She shoved her way through the crowd up to the front, Hagrid and Longbottom following her through. With all the sense of humour John had left in him, he privately thought Hagrid should have gone first, as it would have made a much bigger gap for the other two to get through.

"What's the meaning of this, Jim?" asked McGonagall threateningly.

He took a few steps closer, a mad grin on his face. "Wellllllll… here's the thing, Minerva. I've taken a vote, and it seems that the professors of this school have decided we're in need of new leadership."

"And you think the way to achieve that goal is to ambush the students? We can discuss this in my office."

"Actually, the discussion time is over. We've all decided that you're unfit to lead this school," inserted Slughorn.

"Under what grounds?"

"Under the grounds that our founders wouldn't like where this school has gone to," Moriarty said sorrowfully, though that ecstatic glint was still there in his eyes.

"The founders, or just Slytherin?" asked Longbottom angrily.

"He is, in fact, one of the founders," said Trelawney.

"Sybill," said McGonagall said in irritation at her speaking, "come now, you're stronger than this."

It was the first time she had hinted towards knowing the teachers were Imperiused, and it made John feel a little better. He'd started wondering if Dumbledore was wrong and she hadn't seen the memories at all.

In fact, was all of this an act? She knew all this. There was no reason for her to be surprised. Maybe she didn't want Moriarty to know she'd been expecting this.

"It's really quite something, the way you've rallied all the professors together like this," she added tartly. "Almost unbelievable."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did." Before McGonagall could respond, he strolled forward again. "But the flirting's over, Minerva. Daddy's had enough now!" cried Moriarty in that wavering way of his. John couldn't help but remember when he used to find that endearing in the professor, but now it only further proved how insane he was. "Here's what the options are, Minerva. You can fight me, and one by one the students will die, or you can hand your wands over now, the three of you, and relinquish school control to me."

"How would I know you wouldn't kill students anyway?" asked McGonagall.

"You're just going to have to trust me," he replied.

She looked in turn at both Hagrid and Longbottom.

And Professor Longbottom was the first to set his wand down. "I won't have the students hurt."

"Very good!" cried Moriarty. "This is so much less violent than I expected. Now, if you could come forward please."

The three professors walked, leaving their wands abandoned on the ground. John glared bitterly at Moriarty. For a moment, he was mad at the professors. They weren't going to put up a fight at all? But agter a moment, John understood their plight. With all the professors on his side, Moriarty could kill thirty students in a second, and then the three professors that still had their minds would only be able to stop a few, ten at best. People would die. There wasn't a way to stop that. And of course they were going to choose the course that _could_ mean all the kids lived. They were professors.

Moriarty'd ensured his victory, having all the teachers Imperiused. John privately thought he was a coward, making the other three incapable of fighting him before making his move.

"And now, to decide who will be joining these _fine_ professors," Moriarty sang. He took out a scroll, unrolling it with a flourish.

A student dared to speak. "Joining them where?" he asked defiantly.

"Somewhere for a different educational experience," said Moriarty with a glow in his eyes.

And John knew before the process started what was going to happen, because he'd known for ages now. He'd just hoped it wouldn't really happen before now.

The Muggleborns were going to be taken.

* * *

Sherlock could only watch in something quite akin to terror as Moriarty called forward every Muggleborn in the school. They walked forward, and the ones who didn't were Imperiused to do so anyway. As they walked up, they handed over their wands one by one. John was going to be at the end of the list, but that was just prolonging the inevitable. Sherlock's hand was clasped in John's as tight as either of them could squeeze. Sherlock had never felt real panic like this, and it was startling for him.

"Is it un-Gryffinfor-like to tell you that I'm scared?" asked John.

Sherlock felt a twinge of pain in his chest, for John, for himself. He should have stopped this before it could get this far, but he'd been stupid and just waited for hell to break loose. "Not in this case, no," he said quietly. Because he was frightened too. More than he could say. But mentioning it at all would be completely unhelpful to John at the moment, so he said calmly, "But I have faith he's not going to kill you. I'll find you, John, and I'll rescue you. I promise."

John had just enough time to nod before it happened.

"John Watson!"

John seemed to consider not walking, but probably knew he'd have to do it whether he did it by choice or not, so he looked back at John, locked eyes, and finally he let go. Sherlock felt the separation more than he ever had before.

John had been the last on the list as always, and John reached into his cloak and grabbed out his wand, handing it over.

John was clever enough to know what the fake wand was for now, right?

All the 'chosen' students were shifting, looking around at each other. They all knew who the other Muggleborns was. They were making the connections.

"Follow Slughorn," Moriarty commanded, and the students did, and then John was gone.

Sherlock could only hope John would be okay.

He looked over to Molly, who was looking up at him with wide eyes. But then her face hardened into a glare, defiant and determined.

"We'll find him," she assured him.

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed, seeming to understand the situation enough now to know John was in trouble.

Mycroft nodded curtly in agreement, and Sherlock felt more affection towards all of them than he ever had before. But he didn't speak at first, just looked at them. They took it incorrectly.

"You have to let us help," Lestrade insisted. "He's our friend too."

"I know," said Sherlock. He'd need help with this, because he needed man-power. He already had ideas formulating in his head.

Sherlock wouldn't rest until Moriarty was stopped.


	32. Chapter 32: The Five Stages (Almost)

**The Depression section found its inspiration from this set of drawings. **

** drslug. deviantart. **

**c o m**

**/ art**

**/ Teenager-Sherlock-Molly-389411251**

**Ha. I tricked the site into letting me put up the link. It only took five tries. MUHAHAHAHA! Just take out the spaces, if you'd like to see the drawing. **

* * *

Very few things changed immediately. The Muggle Studies class was completely taken from the curriculum, which left Professor Hudson patrolling the halls, obviously under the Curse, because her typical kindly countenance was replaced with a foreign look of malice. All the professors were this way, because they were all still Cursed, because it was the only way to keep them all on his side.

Moriarty was made Headmaster, of course, so he sat in the Headmaster's chair at meals.

Those identified as "Purebloods" were invited to sit at a special table. Most refused, other than the ones who really thought their blood important, but even that number was dwindling, considering the recent events.

Otherwise, things seemed the same, but for the obviously missing students and professors, about thirty in all.

It took a few days to notice more things. Letters weren't showing up in the mornings. Unknown to the students, they were being answered by a selected teacher the best they could, so no information got out on the hostile takeover.

The next Hogsmeade trip never came.

An alarm was set to sound if someone left the castle after hours, but since no students had tried, nobody knew.

It was just little things. Things that kept the outside world from knowing what had really happened to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

But the thing that was really different was the students.

They were all quiet, all morose. They all felt the absence of the classmates and teachers, even the ones they didn't like much. And they all had banded together, closer than before. Because everyone was confused, and everyone was scared. And everyone knew something was very, very wrong at the school they all loved.

In the lives of our heroes, things changed too. Sally was not as distant as before, and was not talking to Anderson at the moment because he was sitting at the Pureblood table, and she thought that was pompous and gross of him to do. Molly, Judy, Greg, and Mycroft stuck together, all quiet much of the time. Mycroft seemed to be thinking hard mostly, like he was trying to figure out a solution to the problem. But how were they supposed to take down a man with a host of adult witches at his command? They were all at a loss, and they were all petrified because of it.

But the one who was the most different is our young Sherlock Holmes. He, to anyone in the school—even the ones who don't know him well—was changed past recognition.

At least for a time.

**— Isolation —**

Greg asked Mycroft after a week, when they were sitting on the grounds, looking out at the lake.

"Is Sherlock going to be okay?"

Mycroft looked thoughtful. "If we save John, sure."

Greg nodded and was silent.

Sherlock had been nearly nonexistent since the Muggleborns were taken. Molly was the one that filled he and Mycroft in on the details they had already known. Mycroft had guessed most of it, meaning that Greg had been the only one in the dark about it. He tried not to be annoyed by it, because at the moment, his feelings hardly mattered, because there were somewhere around thirty students that had completely vanished, along with three professors, and nobody knew where they were or if they were okay.

If they were even alive.

Greg banished that idea, however. They couldn't be dead. He couldn't tell himself that.

"I believe," said Mycroft, "Sherlock is experiencing the stages of loss."

Greg looked over to him. "What do you mean?"

"There are five supposed stages of grieving in people. I believe he is in the first stage, which is denial or isolation. Isolation, in his case, because he can't really deny it."

That would explain why he'd all but vanished lately. "But why would he be grieving about it? John's not dead."

"We don't know that. Sherlock doesn't know that."

"But the Sherlock I know wouldn't just assume. He'd go looking for clues, figure it out for himself."

"I agree. But he's not the Sherlock we know right now, Gregory. He's hurt and he's panicking, and his mind probably isn't working as well as it should be." A pause. "I think he'll work through it. This is only the first stage, after all."

**— Anger —**

Sherlock was finally seen outside of classes two weeks after the Muggleborns disappeared.

"Sherlock!" Molly called.

Sherlock looked over to her. "What do you want? I'm busy."

Molly followed, actually jogging to keep up with his long gait as Sherlock walked up the stairs. "Are you trying to figure out how to fix all this?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course, because nobody in this establishment is clever enough to figure it out."

Molly should have expected a response like this. "Right. Well, if I could help in any way…"

"You can't."

"Fine, okay, but _if_ you decide—"

Sherlock suddenly stopped in a hallway that was somewhat vacant and kicked the wall. Molly was shocked into silence as Sherlock leaned against it, forehead to the stone.

"Sherlock?" she asked tentatively.

"I should have known. I should have known it was going to happen, and I should've found a way to save John."

"But you're going to save him," said Molly quietly.

Sherlock turned to her, teeth bared in rage. "But what if it's already too late?!"

"It's not," Molly replied, but Sherlock just stormed away, muttering to himself as he went.

**— Bargaining —**

Sherlock was sitting at the table with them, which Greg was ambivalent about. He wanted him to be there, to make sure he was okay, but he was also lashing out lately. Even now, he looked twitchy, was thumping his fingers against the tabletop anxiously.

"I just need more time," said Sherlock aloud.

"More time before what?"

"He can't keep them hidden away forever. He'll get rid of them. I know he will. I just need _time_."

"Sherlock… we're out of time," said Molly quietly. "Who knows what's going on?"

"I swear," Sherlock continued as if nobody had spoken, "if I can just _find_ him, I'll never be mean to anyone again. I'll give up solving mysteries. I'll give up everything."

They all looked at him silently, sad looks on their faces. Greg felt guilty in the pit of his stomach. He'd been half avoiding Sherlock lately, but what he needed right now was his friends—whether he knew that or not.

"Sherlock, we're here to help," provided Molly.

"Really, we are," Greg added. "Any way we can."

Sherlock just shook his head and quickly left the hall.

"Bargaining," Mycroft muttered.

"Sorry?" Greg asked, confused.

"Nothing," he replied, looking pensive.

**— Depression —**

Molly found him outside, on the bank of the Lake.

"Sherlock?" she asked timidly. He'd been hard to talk to lately, because she never knew what mood he'd be in—only that the mood would be bad.

But this time, he was just staring, his dead eyes shining… almost like he was going to cry.

And Sherlock spoke after a moment, his voice quiet and reserved in a way it never was. "I took John out here once to swim in the lake. He was so cold afterwards I had to sleep next to him so he wouldn't get hypothermia. It was the first time I slept by anyone."

Molly leaned down behind him, putting a hand on his back. "It's going to be okay. You'll see."

"And how would you know that, hm?" Sherlock snapped. "Ever lost one of your imaginary friends?"

Molly tried not to be hurt, to remember that Sherlock didn't mean it. That he was in real pain. "I _am_ sorry, you know. Social skills… yeah, not really my area."

Sherlock glanced over to her. "I apologise, Molly. What I said was inappropriate."

"It's okay," she sighed. She was used to it, anyhow. "But you're going to figure this out," Molly said. "I know you will. You always figure it out."

"But what if he's already gone?" he asked in a whisper.

"You just can't buy into that," said Molly. "You can't lose hope. Then you'll _really_ never find him."

Sherlock continued to look out at the lake, and Molly sat by him, the supporting hand on his back. And maybe Molly imagined it, but she could have sworn she saw a tear stream down his cheek.

**— Determination —**

It had been almost a month, and things weren't looking better. Sherlock was almost non-existent again, and Molly said she saw him cry. Greg knew all the Muggleborns were screwed without him, because none of the rest of them had a clue what to do.

Just then, Sherlock walked in. Greg hadn't seen his eyes so bright in ages. Hadn't seen that look on his face like he sniffed out some mystery to solve.

"Today we start the search," he said when he approached them. He didn't even spare Sally a derisive glance, and she didn't bother to glare. Not at a time like this. "Everyone will look on one floor of the castle."

"What are we looking for?" asked Greg, his tone business-like. He wasn't about to mention Sherlock's behaviour of late. He was just going to thank god that he was back to normal. Fanatic, insane, Sherlock normal, but normal for him nonetheless.

"Anywhere they could be hidden. He didn't take them from the castle. He would need them. But there has to be somewhere large enough to fit them all, and somewhere nobody will stumble upon, because no professors are being spared to guard a door. Anywhere forbidden, search."

He assigned them all areas, even Sally, and they all had the brightness in their eyes too, just like him. They were going to start _doing_ something. They were done being helpless kids.

He gave them all their assignments and they all stood, ready to start.

"Sherlock, we'll find them," he said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Without a doubt," Sherlock replied, and he strode off out of the Hall.

"Let's just be glad he didn't choose 'acceptance' as his fifth stage," said Mycroft.

Greg didn't understand, and didn't try to. He just followed them out, going to search where he was told.


	33. Chapter 33: The Hiding Place

**Hey, I'm sorry to do this, because it's super dickish, but I am now going to pitch my own fan fictions. **

**If you're patiently (or impatiently : D) waiting for the next chapter of this to come out, go read some of my other stuff! I'm in progress on a vampire!Sherlock Johnlock and I have I think nine other completed Johnlocks for you to enjoy (some are one shots). Also, I have a single Mystrade. The rest are other fandoms, because I write Supernatural, Merlin, and Superlock crossovers also. **

**And thanks for all the feedback so far! You guys are the best!**

**Okay, I'm done now. Go back to reading. : ]**

* * *

Sherlock found the hiding place the day he decided to start searching, and felt so stupid about the month he'd wasted. He'd felt unable to control his grief, unable to do anything but pity himself.

But now that was over. And now he was one step closer to figuring it all out.

The first place he looked was the Room of Requirement, but he knew immediately that wasn't it, because the room could not be entered when it was in use, and Sherlock was as able as usual to enter he and John's version of the Room.

He looked around it sadly for a long moment before retreating. He couldn't afford to let his feelings get in the way anymore. That wouldn't help John, not now.

The next place he went to was the Chamber of Secrets. Moriarty, being a Pureblood, could very well be a Parselmouth as well.

And Sherlock said 'open' to the faucet…

And nothing happened.

He said it again, just in case, but still nothing.

The password had been changed. He'd even mentioned himself that 'open' was a stupid password, but he didn't honestly figure someone would bother to change it.

And the only reason _to_ change it was if Moriarty was putting something significant down there.

The Chamber was big enough. He'd hidden a person down there before—granted, a _dead_ person, but why wouldn't it work in this case?

And no student could stumble upon it.

He had to figure there was some type of guard keeping the students from getting out, but there was no reason to guard someone from going in, because as far as Moriarty knew, people didn't know where the Chamber was, or how to open it. And even if they did, he probably assumed there were no other Parselmouths. It wasn't a common ability.

So all he had to do now was figure out the password.

"Are you looking for John?"

Sherlock started at the voice, turning and seeing a familiar ghost.

"Ah, Myrtle, hello," he said, masking his annoyance in favour of charm. "How are you?"

"He took them down there. All of them. I suspect they've all starved."

Sherlock's heart fell at the words for a moment, but his firm denial quickly kicked in. "He'll be feeding them somehow."

"He doesn't bring food when he goes down. Well, only enough for one, that is."

"For one?" asked Sherlock.

"There's another wizard down there. Not a professor. I heard Moriarty call him 'Sebastian'. He's the one making sure they don't plan to break out, I suspect. And then there's the _things_," she added.

"The things?" he asked.

She nodded. "It was the middle of the night, the same night he brought the other wizard, and he brought in cage after cage of monsters. I think probably they're outside the door to the Chamber, so if someone _does_ get out, they get killed by a monster."

Sherlock knew John could handle some monsters, thanks to their adventures. Good, they were getting some use. But the question was, had John given the fake wand? Had Moriarty failed to find the actual one? Sherlock didn't know.

"I need to know what he changed the password to," said Sherlock.

"How should I know?" she asked grumpily. "It was all a bunch of hissing."

"But do you remember what the hissing sounded like?" he asked.

"Well… maybe… haassshhhhhaaaaasssssssss-ssss."

Sherlock raised a brow, but repeated it to the faucet. "_Haassshhhhhaaaaasssssssss-ssss._"

Once he said it, he rolled his eyes. "You just said 'toilet' in Parseltongue."

She pursed her lips. "I said _maybe_, didn't I?" she said defensively.

So Sherlock would have to figure out the password himself. And to know that, he would need to know Moriarty.

To work, then.

* * *

John couldn't really give an estimate of how long he'd been down here, because there was very little to judge by. The only light they ever saw by was the misty green darkness of the chamber. People slept when they felt tired, and maybe more often than people might usually, because with nothing at all to do, sleep sounded rather attractive. Plus, while they were asleep, it was almost possible to imagine their lives had not suddenly become a living hell.

The three professors did their best to keep people from completely losing hope, but what was there to say? They were trapped in a chamber with some dark wizard watching over them, with the sounds of horrible creatures just on the other side of the door. They had no protection, no wands.

Well. That wasn't completely true.

John understood Sherlock's gift when he needed to, and in the moment he had to hand his wand over, he gave the fake one. Which meant his own wand was still safely in his cloak. He, though nobody knew it, was their last hope.

But John only had one chance. If the wizard—who must have been called Sebastian Moran, because he'd heard Moriarty call 'Sebastian' at some times and 'Moran' at others—saw his wand, it was over. He'd take it from him and their last hope would be extinguished. He had to think of the perfect plan, and it had to work on the first try.

Moran had defenses around him and the door to the chamber. Nobody could actually see him, but they could hear him and they could feel him, and when Moriarty came down, they listened to the conversation. Professor Longbottom had been the one to try to throw a rock in the general direction of the door, and it had bounced off something invisible and luckily did not hit anyone in its ricochet path.

But John had figured through a few things. One, the monsters that could be heard in the tunnel outside had to be possible to subdue, since Moriarty came down frequently (John assumed once a day). Also, there seemed to be some type of magical barrier around the room, so anything that you do that is supposed to have affects outside the room doesn't work. He figured that much from the fact that his pins didn't work. But, Moriarty came down and filled a table with food (hardly enough for all of them, but enough so they weren't starving), so that meant you could cast magic inside the room, as long as it wasn't supposed to take affect up in the castle.

And he knew, from a time when Moriarty had walked into taunt them and walked back out, that though attacks could not get through the invisible force field that protected Moran, people could. Or at least John was assuming so.

So John had to wait for the opportune moment, when Moran might be vulnerable, and he had to go through the force field, towards someone he couldn't see, and somehow defeat him in one try.

Heh. Easy.

John hadn't risked talking to anyone about it yet, because he wasn't sure what Moran could hear. But he usually stayed near the professors, looking for a chance to talk to them.

He thought the best time was when Moriarty came down to talk to Moran. Then they'd both be distracted by the conversation.

It was only a matter of time.

The other option, which was also completely welcome, was that Sherlock had some grand plan up at the school, and that any moment he'd come bursting in, metaphorical guns blazing.

John somehow doubted that, only because Sherlock might not even know where to look, and if he did how was he expected to get past every professor in the school? At least John only had to get past one wizard. So, sure, he could secretly hope Sherlock was coming for him, but he couldn't bet on it. If he did, he might be stuck here for a long, _long_ time.

* * *

They were sitting under a tree, waiting for Sherlock to arrive. He'd told Molly by pin that he found out where the Muggleborns were being hidden, and wanted everyone to meet and discuss it. Molly had gone running around the school looking for the others, distinctly wishing that he had bothered to give them pins too, because people looked at her really suspiciously when she ran around like a mad woman on a Saturday afternoon. But she'd found Mycroft and Greg quickly enough, and now they'd been waiting under this tree, their determined meeting place, for an hour. Molly was just picking at the grass, since the snow had recently given way to the very beginnings of spring. Greg was staring out at the lake, looking thoughtful, and Mycroft was reading a rather dense looking book in a Runic language, probably recreationally too. He, in some ways, was just as strange as his brother.

"What I don't get," Greg said, "is what the hell he's waiting for."

"Waiting for?" enquired Mycroft absently.

"Yeah. I mean, Moriarty's taken over the school. But other than sending the Muggleborns away, he hasn't done anything with his new authority. Same classes, same everything."

"It could be he only wanted a school without Muggleborns," said Molly. "Maybe he doesn't plan to do anything else."

"Yeah, maybe," said Greg. "but then what about when the end of the school year comes? We'll all go home and tell someone what's been happening, and he'll be stopped, or he'll keep us here, and then the Ministry will know something's wrong and send someone to investigate. Either way, he loses."

"Which implies," inserted Mycroft, "that he wants to do something specific with this power before he loses it. Most likely something that will make it possible for him not to lose it."

"Or he's just bored."

They all looked up and saw Sherlock standing there.

"Bored?" asked Molly.

"You all may not have noticed, since everyone else seemed fond of him until he became a public menace, but I never trusted him, so I saw from the beginning that he's not mentally stable."

"Yeah, I noticed that," said Mycroft, "but I thought he rather reminded me of you, actually." Sherlock glared daggers at him. "Which means," Mycroft continued as if he didn't notice, "your assumption about doing it out of boredom is actually plausible."

"You really think someone could do something like this because they were bored?" asked Molly quietly.

"Someone like Moriarty? Sure. But I do think his plan is not finished. I don't believe he intends to keep the Muggleborn alive. He's trying to get rid of Muggleborns, I'm assuming, so he's not going to keep them around longer than they're useful."

"What are they even useful for?" asked Greg. "If they're just being hidden somewhere, what good are they doing him?"

"Because he thinks it's funny to watch them all wallow in their own excrement?" Sherlock asked blandly. Molly got chills from the fact that Sherlock seemed to understand someone like Moriarty so well. "It's hard to know with psychopaths. Their motivations have a tendency to be inconsistent, and their actions impulsive. It could be he originally planned to kill them, but changed his mind and thought it better to keep them alive, just in case he might need them. Or, like I said, it could be boredom."

"But wait," said Greg. "I thought you knew where they were hidden."

"I do," Sherlock said. "The Chamber of Secrets."

Molly and Greg stared at him incredulously. Molly would have wondered if she heard wrong, except for the look on Greg's face indicated that she hadn't.

"The Chamber of Secrets," Greg repeated.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "But he's changed the password, so I can't get in. The past hour, I've been sitting by the entrance and muttering words in Parseltongue, hoping one might work."

"Parseltongue?" asked Molly.

"Yes, I speak it, do keep up," Sherlock snapped.

Greg looked over to Mycroft, but before he could ask, Mycroft said, "Not me, just him."

"And you know where the entrance is?" asked Molly.

"I've known for years," said Sherlock. "Actually, John and I visited one time, and we found the skeleton of Sabrina Morgan."

That was about the moment when Molly told him that he was really going to have to explain more thoroughly if he wanted them to stop being surprised, so he quickly recounted how he and John went to the Chamber of Secrets in the dead of night—Greg, as Head Boy, looked a little peeved about it, but said nothing—and they found the skeleton in there.

"So he killed her?" asked Greg.

"That seems likely."

"So he's been doing stuff like this under everyone's noses for ages. Must be real proud of himself."

Sherlock gasped quietly, his eyes wide and far off, like he'd just thought of something. "You, Lestrade, just became a catalyst of my thought process."

"Erm… thanks?"

"What if that's it?" asked Sherlock. "What if he's only doing it to see if he can get away with it? This isn't just out of boredom, this is out of a need to prove what he can do? He has proven that he can take over Hogwarts without the Ministry even noticing. What if he's proving his power? Or—" Sherlock said, stepping back like the idea had physically hit him. "What if this was just a test run? What if Hogwarts is the experimentation stage? He wanted to see if using the Imperius Curse on all the most powerful inhabitants of an establishment in order to gain complete control of the place without notice could work?"

"Why would he need to try it? That's how Voldemort did it," said Mycroft.

"Yes, but Moriarty obviously doesn't have the amount of resources that Voldemort did."

"And this took him ten years of working here, Sherlock," added Mycroft. "And if he gets caught now, there'll be no taking his plan over to the Ministry, they'll arrest him. It just seems too foolhardy a plan," argued Mycroft.

"Unless he's already begun the process at the Ministry," said Sherlock. Everyone was quiet at that insinuation, so he continued. "He only had to cast the curse on Slughorn here, and then it spread like a disease from wizard to wizard. All Moriarty had to do was cast it on one influential person at the Ministry. Then the rest would work itself out. Which means Moriarty has not only the school under his control, but will soon have the Ministry too. With everyone under his curse, he could continue to appear to work at Hogwarts, maybe because he likes it here, maybe to keep up appearances. And once he has the Ministry completely under his control, _then_ he'll start making his changes."

Nobody had a denial there, because the plan actually sounded feasible. Well, at least for someone like Moriarty.

Greg was the first to ask the inevitable question. "So how do we stop him?"

"There's at least one person in the Ministry that can't be put under the Imperius Curse. We have to get to him before it's too late."

"And who's that?" asked Molly.

"Harry Potter. He said it in an interview once."

"And how do you suggest we get to him?" asked Mycroft. "We can't get out of the grounds, not with the new security measures. And even if we could, we can't very well make a meeting with him."

"No, we can't," Sherlock agreed. "But McGonagall can."

"So we're back where we started," said Greg. "Getting them out of the Chamber."

"Exactly."

"But you don't know the password."

"Leave that to me."


	34. Chapter 34: The Ministry Worker

**We're getting suddenly close to the ending. I didn't realise it was going to sneak up on me like this. I'm not sure exactly how many more chapters there will be, but I'll let you know when I'm sure. I've planned out the rest of the plot (finally), I just need to figure out where the chapter breaks will be.**

**Also, I am now going to make a plug for a book. It is called ****_In Excess_**** by Quinn Anderson, a fellow Johnlock writer that published an original book. If you've never read her fics, then you are missing out and you should, but I just wanted to say that her book was SO GOOD. I read it all in one day. You can buy it online or whatever. I got it for Kindle for 6. 50 USD. Really. Read it. If you like homoerotica perfection, GO BUY IT. And if you are reading my other in progress Johnlock, ****_The Dark Dimension_****, and already got this message—since I put it in both by literally copying and pasting the same message—I apologise. That is all.**

* * *

The plan all started to come together in Sherlock's mind without much effort on his part. Like his body needed John so badly that his mind was complying, making it possible to see him again. And _soon._

He still didn't know the password to the Chamber, but he thought he was getting close. He was watching the man whenever he could, and he was learning about him slowly.

If Moriarty weren't so prone to doing things just for the shock value, it might have been easier to figure out the password, but since he was so fond of doing the last thing someone expects, it was taking Sherlock some time to figure out the password he'd chosen. But Sherlock knew it would be clever, ironic, and annoyingly simple once he did figure it out. Moriarty was definitely the type to use something so obvious that it would slip a smart man's mind, because he wanted something more challenging to be the truth.

But the password was not the solution that suddenly came to Sherlock.

Dumbledore was.

Dumbledore, being the great wizard he was, had portraits in high places.

Undoubtedly, in the Ministry of Magic as well.

So, in this, Sherlock's entire plan came to fruition through a complete and utter stranger.

* * *

Barnabas Swank had been at work for an hour.

Being the least useful worker the Magical Maintenance department had, he was always given the worst jobs. Right now, the worst job they had was in the basement.

The Ministry's basement couldn't be creepier even if they were intentionally making it scary.

Then again, Barnabas wasn't completely convinced it _wasn't_ intentional.

It was dark and drafty, and water dripped from the ceiling in some places that no amount of magical maintenance could fix. The basement was where they kept things that either were too ruined to fixed, not worth going through the effort of fixing, or they didn't have time to fix at the present. Each of these items was covered in a white sheet, some water-stained from the dripping walls. All of it together, plus the fact that Barnabas was almost positive they had a ghoul hiding in one of the corners that moaned occasionally, made the place especially eerie.

He never bothered to tell anyone though. He wasn't the type to complain aloud usually. He seemed to think most things in the world were not his business, so he kept to himself. When he did have conversations with people, most found him quite pleasant to talk to, for he was genuine about his feelings and never too prying. Again, most things weren't his business. He just sat in the basement and made sure nobody else entered. He wasn't even quite sure what the point of the job was, but he wasn't about to complain.

He also walked with a cane and had some issues with his lungs that sometimes made him cough uncontrollably. He was getting on in years, after all—somewhere close to sixty someone might judge from his wrinkle-webbed skin and white hair—and health issues were not a surprise.

His complacent demeanour, lack of ambition, and poor health did one very good thing for him: Nobody would ever bother to cast the Imperius Curse on him, because what use would he be? He just sat in the basement, cowering away from imaginary ghouls.

So because of all these things together, his first visit was not taken very well.

He was sitting in his chair, whistling to himself just to fill the dead silence that was only broken by the damn water dripping to the concrete floor.

"Hello?"

Barnabas jumped. Someone had _not_ just spoken, he told himself. Nobody ever came down here. Well, other than Francis. That's what he'd named the ghoul. But Francis the ghoul never spoke, and even if he could, he probably wouldn't, because it seemed he was trying to hide from Barnabas, since the man had never actually seen the ghoul.

So Barnabas leaned back in his chair once more, but his back was just the slightest bit more rigid than before, and he couldn't bring himself to whistle anymore.

"Hello? I know someone is out there."

Barnabas couldn't have made that up. "Who—who are you?" he yelped, his wand brandished in the direction of the voice, which was opposite the door. How could someone have walked past him unless they were already there when he started his shift?

"Good, someone _is_ there. I _thought_ I heard someone."

Barnabas was a little confused now. He hadn't noticed before, but the voice was actually quite pleasant, and rather relaxed. Hardly someone hear to kill him or anything.

"Where are you?" asked Barnabas quietly.

"Well I'm sure I don't know. I can't see. I imagine a sheet has been put over me."

Barnabas only took another moment to understand. It was a portrait talking to him. There were many portraits down here, but most of them didn't work anymore and were empty, thus why they'd be put in a basement.

So that meant he knew what portrait it was, because only a few still worked. He went to the back corner, to five hung up all next to each other with one giant sheet suspended over them all. He pulled it down with a flourish.

The second to the left was the one containing Albus Dumbledore. The rest said his name along the bottom, but were empty, for he couldn't very well be two places at once.

"Mr Dumbledore, sir!" said Barnabas, saluting him. He felt silly a moment later, but this was Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard who ever lived. "Barnabas Swank, sir!"

"Hello Barnabas," he replied with a smile. "How are you tonight?"

"A bit better now, with someone to talk to," he admitted. "It can be quite lonely down here, and a little scary, if I'm tellin' the truth."

Dumbledore's eyes glanced round the room. "I could imagine that," he replied. "But I did come here for something other than a nice chat, I'm afraid."

"Anything, Mr Dumbledore, anything!"

Dumbledore gave a humble smile. "Well, I only wondered," Dumbledore said, suddenly walking to the right. He left one frame just to walk through the one next to it, and then the next, and then the one to the far right. He walked through that one too, and ended up on the far left one, and then ended back in the one he started in. "I wondered why all the paintings that are usually in various offices of the Ministry are all down here instead. I presume this is the basement."

Barnabas nodded. "Well, sir, your paintings are _supposed_ to be getting their annual cleaning."

Dumbledore, being a sharp man—or, rather, portrait—caught the implication of Barnabas' words. "But…" he prompted.

"But they've been down in the basement for over a month now, and nobody's come to pick them up to clean. I think it mighty strange, sir. To neglect your paintings, of all things!"

Dumbledore looked thoughtful. "I believe the reason for my portraits being moved is a bit less innocent than neglect, Barnabas," Dumbledore confided.

"What do you mean?" he started to ask, but before he finished his sentence, Dumbledore walked through the three paintings to his right, and when he got through the last, did not appear again to the painting on the far left.

He was gone.

* * *

Four out of five of our favourite teenagers—as the fifth is mildly imprisoned at present—were huddling around a chocolate frog card in the Ravenclaw's hand. The Gryffindor was resting on the Ravenclaw's back, his chin propped up on his elbows, which were digging into the Ravenclaw's shoulders.

"I never realised you could be more annoying than usual," said Sherlock, "but your elbows are more grating than your stupidity."

"Oh, shut it," replied Greg eloquently.

The Hufflepuff was squeezed in under the Ravenclaw's arm, in a way that would have been maybe a little inappropriate, as her face was near his crotch, if either of them were thinking about that at the moment.

The Slytherin was very close to them, but not engaging in their ridiculous pretzel out of pride. He glanced at the card often though, and was fidgeting with his umbrella.

All four of them, though from four different Houses and having four very different—and sometimes conflicting—personalities, had one important thing in common.

They craved for adventure regularly, to get past the mundane of their normal lives, but they now had a vested interest in one adventure in particular, all for their own reason. Whether for love, chivalry, compassion, or pride, they all needed to save the poor students under the school.

And to do that they needed to know what Dumbledore had found when he visited the Ministry of Magic. Sherlock had the brilliant idea that there must be at least one portrait of Dumbledore at the Ministry. Dumbledore replied that there were actually five, and two of which were in especially important locations: The Minster of Magic's office and the Auror's Department.

Dumbledore was sent immediately to try to talk to Harry Potter, who was the Head of the Auror's Department, but Dumbledore had said before he left that he had doubts that his portraits were still in those locations.

They were only waiting for his return.

And he appeared, and the Slytherin who had wanted nothing to do with their undignified tangle of teenaged limbs came forward and pressed behind the Gryffindor as to peer over the Ravenclaw's shoulder.

"Myc," Greg muttered, "you just stepped on my foot."

"Sorry, sorry," he said hastily, his attention trained on the little face inside the card.

"It's as I guessed," said Dumbledore's card. "All my paintings have been moved to the basement, where the only person who ever sees them is a man called Barnabas Swank. He was not, however, under the Imperius Curse, which is a good thing."

"How do you know?" asked Mycroft.

"I'm quite sure he thought I was a ghost at first, and I don't think a man under the Imperius Curse would be as easy to frighten as that."

"No, probably not," inserted Molly.

"So we need to get Swank to move one of your portraits back into the Auror's office, or else get him to get Harry Potter to come down to the basement," said Sherlock.

"I suspect the latter is unlikely to happen, so yes, we need him to get my paintings back into the Ministry."

"And how do we do that?" asked Greg.

"He had a great deal of respect for me, so I imagine he'd do most of the things I asked, but I'm also quite sure he's not one to get himself involved in any sort of trouble unless for a very good cause. I believe I shall need to befriend him, and get him to trust me, in order to convince him to move my portrait."

Sherlock groaned, and Mycroft made a sour face. "Befriend him? How long will that take?" asked Sherlock.

"Good things come to those who wait, Mr Holmes," said Dumbledore.

"Good things come to those who don't use corny clichés as well," Sherlock grumbled.

Dumbledore only continued to smile at him. "I will work as quickly as I can, I assure you. I'm actually quite good at making friends. But the rest comes down to you. I can get to Harry Potter, hopefully within the week, but you don't know whether the students in the Chamber have that long. Continue to think of what the password might be. I suspect it's under your very nose."

Sherlock looked down at the card with wide eyes.

"Under my nose," he murmured quietly, still looking at the Dumbledore card. Which, as it were, was right about under his nose.

Sherlock suddenly jumped to his feet, causing all three of the others to fall over into a tangled mess.

"What is it?" Molly managed to ask.

"The password. I think I might know what it is!" declared Sherlock, and at top speed, he raced into the castle.


	35. Adventure 11: The Prison Break

I seemed that Dumbledore was actually the answer to everything now.

Because Dumbledore was also the password to the Chamber of Secrets.

It was ironic, because Moriarty feared Dumbledore enough—even from beyond the grave—that he had covered and hidden all his portraits in both Hogwarts and the Ministry, not considering Chocolate Frog Cards a threat. It wasn't a complicated word, or something obscure. It was a word everyone would know, and in that Moriarty thought nobody would guess it.

But Sherlock figured it out.

Sherlock used it on the faucet, and it opened, but he closed it again immediately. As much as he wanted to go charging in and taking John by force right that second, he had to have a plan, or he would fail. And he was the only one who could open the Chamber (because even if he told them the password, they wouldn't be able to say it in Parseltongue), so if he got caught, it was all over. He had to be careful and think of fool-proof plan.

And fast, because he was concerned about how long they'd be kept around.

As he pondered what his move would be, Dumbledore's portrait checked in from time to time, telling Sherlock the status of his friendship with Barnabas Swank.

* * *

Barnabas was still feeling strange from his encounter with the Dumbledore portrait the night before. He had brought some Wizard's chess with him to work and was playing with himself. Sounded silly, but you could actually get the chess board to play against you on its own, which was rather fun, except it always won. A chess board knowing a bit about chess. Who'd have thought?

This was not out of the ordinary for him, bringing something to do. Sometimes he just couldn't imagine having to sit in the dim room alone for hours on end with nothing but his wand to entertain him (though wands were entertaining, of course, but not usually in ways that were inconspicuous).

What was strange was two things. One, he usually sat near the door, but tonight he sat near the back of the room. Two: what he sat in front of were the five paintings of Dumbledore, which were still left uncovered by the sheet. And as the chess board's queen crushed his bishop, he glanced up at the painting for the umpteenth time that night.

But this time it was occupied.

"Dumbledore, sir!" He stood up so quickly his chess board fell off the little table it had been resting on, but Barnabas paid it no mind.

"Hello, Barnabas."

"You're back," he said dumbly.

"Indeed I am."

A pause.

"But why?"

"Well, you see, Barnabas, even portraits get bored on occasion, and I was rather hoping at least one of my portraits would be back up in the Ministry. The Auror's office it quite entertaining to watch."

"Sorry sir, still not up," he said.

"No problem. I've got you to chat with, don't I?"

Barnabas blushed like a little boy meeting his idol. Well, maybe that's just what he was. At this point he was only half Dumbledore's age, probably. Maybe he was a child in the eyes of that great wizard, even if others were starting to call him old, senile. And if Barnabas had any idol at all, it was Albus Dumbledore. It was the reason he wanted to work at the Ministry. He wanted to do something with his life, to fight evil like when Dumbledore fought Grindelwald. But instead of ending up in the Auror's office where he'd wanted, he got landed in Magical Maintenance. Which was fine, but even forty years later, he still wished he'd gotten to be an Auror the way he'd wanted to be when he got out of Hogwarts at the age of eighteen.

"I've not got many interesting things to talk about, I'm afraid," said Barnabas with a smile. "I don't do very much."

"Oh, I find people are much more interesting than they usually suppose."

And Albus listened quite intently as Barnabas talked about his life, when he was young and more recently. About how his wife died shortly after they were married, and he never found another woman to love. Because of this, he never had children, but he had a niece and nephew he was quite fond of and visited whenever he could.

This went on for three days. Dumbledore came and just listened. He'd talk about his own life sometimes too, but admittedly Barnabas knew many of the things he said from biographies and articles he'd devoured all his life.

It was the third day when he told Albus one of the things he didn't tell anyone anymore: his old wish to be an Auror, and how learning of Dumbledore's fight with Grindelwald when he was young had been what caused his desire to work as an Auror. Barnabas wasn't sure if he imagined the sad look in Dumbledore's eyes because of what he'd read about Dumbledore and Grindelwald's friendship, or if it was really there, but Dumbledore immediately showed interest in Barnabas' old dream.

"But that was a long time ago," said Barnabas.

"Oh, you don't want to make a difference anymore?" asked Dumbledore with this knowing smile that again made Barnabas feel much younger and more naïve than he actually was.

"Well… yeah, I guess I do. But I'm an old man. I got no wife, no kids… what good can I do anyone?"

"I had no wife or kids. Does that mean I never did any good?"

Dumbledore didn't sound insulted when he said this, but Barnabas took the comment back passionately all the same.

"No, no, of course not! I only mean… well, I'm not a great wizard like you."

"Barnabas, do you want to know a secret?" asked Dumbledore.

Barnabas leaned forward unintentionally. "Yeah."

"You're the most important man in the Ministry right now."

Barnabas was silent for only a moment when he started laughing.

And was laughing for only a moment when he realised that Dumbledore was serious.

"Me? Are you barkin'?"

"Oh, most certainly, but it's still true," replied Dumbledore.

"Not in my wildest dreams," retorted Barnabas.

"Whether or not you'd dream it doesn't impact whether or not it's true."

"Do you always speak in riddles like that?"

"Barnabas," said Dumbledore, his voice suddenly more serious than usual, "I meant what I said. I need something to get done here at the Ministry, and you might be the only person that can do it."

"You want _me_ to do something?" asked Barnabas in awe. "Are you sure I'm the man for the job?"

"Oh, you're the only one I'd ever consider, Barnabas."

"You mean that?" he asked, his eyes wide and shining with pride at the fact that his childhood hero thought so highly of him.

"Most certainly. Are you up to that challenge?"

Barnabas felt like the courage from his youth suddenly came back to him in a rush, flooding his senses and possibly impairing his sense of self-preservation.

"Of course I am!" he said, hearing confidence in his own voice that he hadn't for going on forty years.

"Good. Then here's what I want you to do…"

* * *

Sherlock had been ready for days, just waiting for the cue.

He couldn't get this wrong. If he started the escape plan too early, then the Ministry wouldn't show up on time. If he started too late, then Moriarty might have warning that the Ministry was on their way and change the password. The plan was sensitive, and if he didn't get it done exactly the way he planned, it could all be ruined.

And he just couldn't afford to lose. Not when John's life was on the line.

Sherlock had never even told John how he really felt. Not in words. And he'd never be able to live with himself if John didn't know the truth.

That Sherlock Holmes was in love. Enough that even _he_ had to admit it.

It had to work.

So he and his friends had been prepared at basically all hours of the day.

Against his preference, he showed them the Room of Requirement so they could meet there between all classes. But again, anything was worth it if he could save John. It's all that really mattered. It had been driving him half mad to not know how he was doing. Not to be able to see him. That he'd wasted so much damn time panicking instead of planning. Would John ever forgive him for that?

For once, his emotions weren't a hindrance. Normally, he was fueled to do anything by his need for knowledge, or by his pride. But he'd found in the past few days that love is a much more vicious motivator.

So they were all in the Room of Requirement. Mycroft was reading, Greg and Molly were talking quietly, and Sherlock was pacing across the room, his quick steps high pitched and echoing in the seemingly ceilingless room. Nobody even had the heart to tell him to stop, because they all understood how he was feeling. He would hate the pity usually, but at the moment he was just glad nobody was telling him to sit down and relax, because that was virtually impossible.

He glanced at the vacant Chocolate Frog Card in his hand frequently, waiting for a small, bearded face to appear.

_Any moment now,_ he kept telling himself.

And then he glanced one more time, and this time, there the face was.

"Dumbledore!" It came out like a kind of gasp, a sound too desperate to be leaving Sherlock's throat. He really was losing it. And the only way not to was to get John out. _Now_.

Everyone else jumped up.

"I'm in place. Commence your side of the plan immediately."

Dumbledore left the card, not wasting any time with chit chat. He was a slightly mental old man at times, but at others, he could become serious as the grave, enough to even make Sherlock a bit unnerved.

But Sherlock didn't waste any time either.

"Come on. Let's go."

Everyone nodded, looks of determination etched into their faces, and they left the Room together, heading down to the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.

It was now or never.

* * *

Barnabas was feeling strange about this errand.

Because what Dumbledore had asked him to do was really simple. Easy, even.

And that was exactly what worried him about it.

He felt like he had to have been missing something. Albus spoke like this mission was of the utmost importance, but what kind of good could this possibly do?

Because all Dumbledore had asked Barnabas to do is put his portrait back in the Auror's department. Specifically, it was in the Head of the Department's office, usually. So he just had to take it back up. What was the harm in that? No harm at all, really.

Which is what made Barnabas conclude that there was more to doing this than he had originally thought.

Even though it seemed such a mundane thing to do, he found himself being careful. Covering the painting with a sheet, and then putting it on a cart with other harmless boxes on top of it. As if a portrait of Dumbledore was something to get in trouble for.

_But what if it is?_ a little voice in the back of his head asked. Dumbledore's portraits were all taken down a month ago and nobody seemed to want to put them back up.

What if people had taken them down for a reason?

And what if that meant he could really get in trouble for this?

He didn't think about it too hard. After all, he was doing something for Albus Dumbledore. Something of the highest significance. He'd always wanted to make a difference in the world… and now a chance had been dumped in his lap. Of course he was going to take it.

He went up the lift, and nobody looked at him. In fact, nobody even spoke to each other, which was a little strange. He wasn't up above the basement often, but he thought they were more social back in his younger days.

He rolled through the Auror's Department and was surprised that it was so empty. He passed a few desks. Over one cubicle wall, he saw the orange head of who must have been Mr Weasley. Then, at the end of the hall, was the Head of Department's office. His heart rate was increasing, but he ignored it.

He knocked.

Nothing.

"Mr Potter?"

No response.

"He's out with Ginny for lunch," called a voice from behind Barnabas. He turned to see that it must have been that orange head talking.

"I just need to hang up a portrait," said Barnabas.

"Oh, then go on in, mate."

"Thanks sir."

"Yeah," he said vaguely, still not bothering to look up. Barnabas pushed open the door and immediately saw the empty nail hanging on the wall, begging to be used once more.

He quickly took out the painting and put it up.

"Good," said Dumbledore. "Thank you, Barnabas."

"Of course, Mr Dumbledore sir."

"I will tell Harry how you've helped us today."

Barnabas wasn't really sure what that meant, but nodded anyway and walked out of the office.

And was met by a tall, muscular wizard with a menacing glare.

"What were you doing in there?" asked the wizard.

Barnabas was thinking of an excuse, knowing instinctually not to tell this man the truth, when Mr Weasely from behind his cubicle said, "Oi, Roberts, lay off. He's just doing his job."

The large man glared for another moment, but then walked away.

And Barnabas somehow got away with the errand he knew was more than it seemed without a hitch. He only wondered what he'd really just helped with.

* * *

John always figured he'd know when it was time to make his move the moment the time came, that he'd feel it in his gut.

Well, that wasn't exactly how it went, but as it were, he _did_ in fact know exactly when to do it.

But it wasn't his gut that told him.

It was the bloody noise coming from outside the Chamber.

At first, he thought the noises could have been the animals getting excited for no reason. Then he decided that they were getting so loud that they had to have been killing each other to make noises like that. Then he heard a yell that was definitely human, and had a mad moment where he hoped viciously it was Moriarty getting killed by his own beasts.

Then he heard the voice.

"John, I'm coming!"

He thought he'd imagined it at first. Because he'd imagined Sherlock saying that every moment of the day ever since he came down here.

But then he kept hearing the noises from the hall. More shouting, several sounding like younger people.

Then John saw out of the corner of his eye the figure that was always hidden by a spell. Moran. In a flash of intuition, he realised that he must have been the one maintaining the spell, and that he couldn't have a break in concentration or the spell would fall away.

It was flickering. John just had to aim it just right. He couldn't miss.

He had to do it silently. That would help. He was pretty sure he was able by now.

He took his wand out slowly, and if anyone noticed, they didn't say anything.

The shield flickered again, and at the same time John thought _Stupefy_. A flash of red, and then the shield fell away. Moran was on the ground.

"You have a wand?" yelled Yancey. "How?"

"I'm quite thinking the same thing," said McGonagall.

"No time," John said.

"But why didn't you use it earlier?" someone asked.

"I was waiting for the right moment, or else he'd have just taken my wand the moment I failed. And the right time came. Now come on."

"You'll be giving Gryffindor loads of points for this," said McGonagall.

Like John cared about that now. but still, he surged forward towards the door, and everyone let him get ahead, as he was the only one with a wand. The three professors were following him. The Chamber could be opened without a password from the inside, so he pushed it open.

Utter chaos was ahead of him.

Skrewts, young dragons, Acromantulas, a lot of things John didn't even recognise… all attacking the four students at the other end of the tunnel.

There was Sherlock, looking quite the same as always. For an endless second, they meet eyes. John sees a million things there in Sherlock's face, like guilt and relief and fear and more emotions than John can count, and is reminded of when Sherlock never showed any emotion at all. Oh times had changed.

"Here, catch," said Sherlock. He pulled something out of his bag.

It was that sword that was modeled to look like Gryffindor's that he used to kill the Acromatula. He somehow was able to catch it without cutting anyone's head off and handed it off to the person next to him, which happened to be McGonagall.

And McGonagall, in the heat of the battle, just stares at the sword.

"Where did you get this?" she asked in shock.

John didn't understand why her face looked like that. "It's just a fake," said John.

"No it isn't," she said. "I know what this sword looks like. This is the real sword.

"What?" John chokes out.

Sherlock must have overheard, because then he said, "Oh, I never told you. When you reached into my bag to get the fake sword in the forest, you came out with the real sword. I didn't notice until weeks later that I had both the real sword and the fake in my bag, since you managed to grab the real one just by force of will. Guess you really are a true Gryffindor."

John didn't know what to say to that, and didn't have time to anyway, so he just started throwing curses at the monsters.

It wasn't long before they had all the monsters down. Some were just temporarily subdued, but it was better than nothing. McGonagall was pretty good with a sword though, so she took a chunk out herself. Then again, that could be explained by the magical properties of the Sword of Gryffindor rather than her ability wielding a blade.

John had all of the other Muggleborns leave the Chamber, following John, who was following his friends. All he really wanted to do was hug Sherlock, but he knew they weren't in the clear yet.

But the higher they got into the school, the more he heard more noise.

More sounds of struggle.

"Who's up there?" asked John.

"The Ministry of Magic," Sherlock said casually, as if that weren't surprising in the slightest. "Or at least some Aurors. They're supposed to be undoing the Imperius Curse on all the professors. We'll see if they manage it."

* * *

And they could manage it. By the time they got out of the Chamber and were in the Entry Hall, there were a lot of disgruntled and ashamed looking professors, but they were all running around like whirlwinds.

Then John felt like a total fangirl when he saw Harry Potter himself running around with them. He never thought he'd see the day that he'd see Harry fucking Potter in person.

And everything was looking good. They were winning. It was done.

Until they realised one very important thing.

"Moriarty," said Slughorn darkly. "He's escaped. We can't find him anywhere. He's just... gone."

But John had a gut feeling, a bad one, that Moriarty wasn't really gone at all.

He was just waiting.

* * *

**We're so close to the end, my friends. ****_So close_****. Thank you so much for all your dedication, reading all this so far. You guys are awesome.**

**I'm not REALLY sure, but I think there are only three or four more chapters left. More or less. Dunno. We shall see. **


	36. Chapter 36: The Abandoned Pin

**We're really really close to the end. I'm still not really sure how many more chapters there will be, but I kind of doubt it will be more than three. So yeah, we're almost done here. Hope you've liked it so far. This chapter consists of a cameo from a character you may more may not know... ; D**

* * *

Because of everything that had happened, it was decided that the students would be sent home on the Hogwarts Express within the week. Which seemed somewhat ironic, since the students weren't even sent home when the Chamber had been opened last, when a Basilisk was going around petrifying people. But this time, they knew Moriarty was on the loose, and he was a complete psycho. McGonagall feared that if the students stayed for long, he would do something even worse than he already had. It had been announced that the students might be brought back in a month or so, if Moriarty was found in that time, but even if they found him soon, they decided that everyone needed a break from school after all that had happened.

John was so glad to be out of that stupid Chamber that he couldn't even be annoyed about the fact that Sherlock was telling everyone he passed for the next few days that he had been right about Moriarty since first year when he'd told everyone about him being evil. In fact, John could hardly bring himself to be away from Sherlock's side for very long at all. Half because he'd just missed him, but also because of how Sherlock was acting.

He was like a different person. Far kinder to John than he'd ever been—though, don't be confused, he wasn't _kind_, just kind_er_. It was like he'd been so afraid he was going to lose John that now that he was back, he had to make sure to be with him every moment.

For the few days that they were staying at Hogwarts before they were all to be taken home, John found himself paranoid, looking around every corner as if Moriarty might appear and shove him back in the Chamber. John had a feeling he wouldn't really sleep again until he knew Moriarty was either locked up in Azkaban or dead. But, still, just Sherlock being around helped to ease his mind enough that he could act fairly normal. But everyone who had been locked in the Chamber was a little different, a little jumpier than before. And people treated him all like landmines—if you touch them wrong, they'll explode. Either that or like they were made of glass. John found himself both annoyed and grateful about the treatment at the same time. Maybe because he didn't want to think of himself as that fragile, but in truth he was at the moment.

It was finally the day before they were to go back to London. John, though he loved Hogwarts, just wanted to leave. He didn't think he'd forever be afraid of the castle or anything like that, only for as long as Moriarty was missing. Everyone was sitting at dinner. Judy was there, and John was glad for that, since they'd talked to her little since all this Moriarty business started. Sally and Anderson were also there, which was a little strange, as John had gotten used to being ignored by them. They decided they didn't hate Sherlock quite as much as before, as he was kind of a hero now. He'd become quite popular in some ways, everyone asking him how he managed to save everyone. He was mostly annoyed by it, which John couldn't help but laugh at when Sherlock wasn't looking.

John glanced up to the professor's table, which was much different than usual. First, all the professors looked exhausted and on edge, nothing like their usual selves, either by imprisonment in the Chamber or in their own minds. Secondly, there were several new people at the table, because Aurors had been planted at the school twenty four hours a day, for everyone's safety. One of them was Ron Weasley. People often looked up and stared, and John was no exception. He was a celebrity, after all.

John's attention was called back to his friends, however, when there was a now familiar voice that came from inside Sherlock's robes. Sherlock pulled out a Chocolate Frog card, and Dumbledore was there.

"Hello Dumbledore," said Sherlock casually, and John was a little surprised by the amount of respect in his voice. Dumbledore could even reach Sherlock's stone heart. It made John smile.

"Good evening Sherlock. And Molly, Greg, how are you?"

"Doing fine," said Greg.

"Good," said Molly at the same time.

"Wait, is that Chocolate Frog card _talking_?" asked Anderson. Everyone ignored him.

"I thought I would let you know," said Dumbledore, "that Barnabas Swank has been recruited by Mr Potter, the Head of the Auror's Department, to be an Auror."

John had heard a little about this Barnabas fellow, but not much.

Molly, however, grinned really wide. "Oh, that's wonderful! It's what he always wanted."

"Yes, exactly. It's why I thought I'd tell you."

"Good on 'im," said Greg.

"That's so nice," Molly continued.

Sherlock said nothing, and John was quite sure he didn't care. Then again, Dumbledore probably knew that too. The message was most likely for everyone else.

"Anywho, I've been keeping a lookout in all my paintings for Moriarty, so I should get back to that. Have a nice evening."

With a small smile, he was gone.

John picked at his food, mostly just wanting to be alone with Sherlock again. They would be that night, luckily, because they were still sleeping in the Room of Requirement. The only difference was that Sherlock came to get John at the entrance to the Gryffindor common room instead of meeting John there, probably paranoid the same way John was.

John was counting down the minutes.

* * *

Sherlock never knew there was something more annoying in the world than stupidity, but he found it. Fame. He'd wanted people to believe him about Moriarty, and he wanted people to know how clever he really was, but this ridiculous attention he was getting was amazingly irritating. He couldn't be alone for a moment. It was hard to sneak around now unless it was the dead of night, because people wanted to talk to him all the time. Because of this, he couldn't go straight to the Room of Requirement after classes (which were still happening, since they might be coming back in a month to complete classes, as long as they found Moriarty in that time, which McGonagall was confident they would), because everyone wanted to follow him wherever he went. So he waited until everyone went to bed, and then he met John outside his common room.

Sherlock was, to say the very least, attentive for the next few days. Moriarty wasn't gone, he was only biding his time. It was why he wasn't leaving John alone. If Moriarty was going to go after anyone, it'd be John. Not only was he a Muggleborn, but Moriarty surely knew Sherlock had been the one to thwart him, and also knew that John was the most important thing in Sherlock's life. He was in far more danger of being taken than anyone else. And thus Sherlock was being very careful.

Sherlock was sitting in his common room, waiting for everyone to get tired and go to sleep. But people kept trying to talk to him. He tried to ignore them, thinking it would make them back off, but they didn't seem to care that he wasn't speaking. They just kept up constant streams of compliments, of unanswered questions. He considered pretending to go to bed himself, thinking that might make them all go to sleep, but then if he tried to leave again and they were still in the common room, they would become suspicious of him. He just gritted his teeth and waited for them to lose interest.

Luckily, it didn't take as long as usual. There was no homework to do, as they were all going home the next morning, and they all said they needed to pack.

The moment they were all gone, Sherlock got up and left the common room, anxious to see John again. Any time away from him was too much now, after all the time he'd spent away from him.

Especially considering Sherlock still hadn't built up the nerves to tell John how much he really missed him, how he _really_ felt.

Sherlock walked quickly through the seventh floor, avoiding loud paintings, and everything was going as it should—

"Oi! Who's there?"

Sherlock froze. Really? Of all nights to be caught, of course it'd be _now_. Then again, he shouldn't have been surprised, as there were Aurors everywhere looking out for Moriarty.

"I already saw you, no point in hiding," said the man.

Sherlock turned and at the sight of a tall man with ginger hair, he knew it was Ron Weasley.

Sherlock was waiting for the lecture, to be taken to McGonagall.

"Oh, it's you," said Weasley. "You're the one who saved all the kids from the Chamber of Secrets."

Sherlock miraculously managed not to roll his eyes and nodded. "Are you going to turn me in?"

To his surprised, Weasley laughed. "I went to Hogwarts once, you know. My friends and I snuck out all the time. Just be careful, will you? There's a Dark Wizard on the loose."

Sherlock nodded, grateful this was the Auror he ran into, because he was sure no other one would have reacted the same way.

So Sherlock kept walking until he got to the common room, and he started to speak into his pin…

But when he did, there was an echo, as if the pin was close enough that he was hearing his own voice through the other one.

He looked around, wondering where John was standing.

Then he looked down. John's pin was there on the ground. Sherlock got a very bad feeling as he bent down to pick it up.

When he touched it, a voice came out through it.

"Oh, this was a very clever invention, Sherlock." Sherlock had guessed what happened the moment he saw the pin on the ground, but when he heard Moriarty's voice, a fresh wave of fear went through him. Because if Sherlock had his own pin and John's, there was a third pin in Moriarty's hand. Molly's. who else did Moriarty have? "I'm waiting for you, Sherlock. If you bring anyone else with you, or warn anyone where you're going, I promise your friends will be dead before you arrive."

Sherlock took a moment to answer, finding himself too furious to find words for a moment. Then he said through gritted teeth, "Where?"

"Oh, I just want to do some stargazing."

Sherlock set off immediately, a million possibilities running through his head at what Moriarty's plan might be, each worse than the last.

One of them being that John was already dead, and Moriarty just wanted Sherlock to see his dead body.

Sherlock walked faster. If that was the truth, he'd never forgive himself.

"Oh, and I suggest you hurry," said the pin. "I get quite naughty when I'm bored."

"If you hurt them, I'll kill you. I promise you that," said Sherlock, his voice cold and hard without a bit of hesitation.

"We'll see about that."


	37. Chapter 37: The Astronomy Tower

**So I suddenly had inspiration to finish the story. So I did. I decided it would be mean to post this chapter without the conclusion, so you can go straight to the ending after this. You're welcome. **

* * *

Sherlock ran up the stairs to the top of the Astronomy Tower, knowing that must have been what Moriarty was referencing with the stargazing comment.

Once up there, the first thing that happened was that his wand flew out of his hand, being caught by Moriarty. He'd been expecting it, but his charm was so quick that Sherlock couldn't prepare himself for it.

After he'd been disarmed, he looked around the roof. He wasn't surprised to see that there were four people tied up and gagged. John, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft.

Sherlock met John's eyes, and the two knew each other well enough that Sherlock felt as if he could actually hear a conversation happening between them.

_Sherlock, you shouldn't have come._

_I couldn't very well leave you here._

_Well if you die, I'll fucking kill you. _

Sherlock then looked to Moriarty. "This is a little out of character, isn't it?" he said. "Seeing as your quarrel is with Muggleborns. Why take the others?"

Moriarty gave a smile, one that Sherlock had learned to be wary of years back, before anyone thought of the smile as anything but charming. "Oh, my quarrel was never with Mudbloods," said Moriarty. "They're a minor nuisance, sure, but I don't care what they do, really."

"So did you lock them all in the Chamber out of boredom?" asked Sherlock skeptically.

"Oh, only a small part of it was boredom. It was quite fun though, wasn't it?" He seemed to be waiting for Sherlock to agree for a moment, but when it was silent, he continued, "No. I locked up the Muggleborns because of _you_."

Sherlock looked up to Moriarty sharply, his attention now fully on the man. "What?" he asked.

Moriarty smiled. "Oh, Sherlock. You figured out everything from the start. In your first year, you knew that I was a Dark Wizard, in your second, you knew I had killed Sabrina Morgan, every year after, you knew what I had done, and nobody believed you. You saw every detail… except the most important one."

He was quiet, obviously just to annoy Sherlock. After ten seconds, Sherlock prompted, "And that detail was?"

"My reason for doing it," Moriarty replied. "I, being the villain of the story, really have no choice but to begin my evil monologue. So I ask that you hold off all questions for the end, agreed? Good.

"You see, being a Pureblood, I never much liked Mudbloods, but I didn't care either way about them, usually. I wanted possession of the school just for the fun of running it for a while, sure, and I practiced in Dark Magic when people made me angry, but I didn't act on these impulses often. But then you came along, and you knew my nature immediately. You saw right through me. It intrigued me. Finally, someone in this school that wasn't completely _dull_!

"I watched you in your first year and saw your interest in solving mysteries and the way you disliked your brother's stock in the purity of blood. So the next year, I killed Sabrina Morgan, knowing you would be interested. I wanted to see how fast you would know it was me. You figured it out quickly. Every year after that, I played a silly prank on a Mudblood, just so you wouldn't forget about me, and I watched you solve the puzzles, and I was so _impressed_ with you. You were just so funny. Then you fell for this little Mudblood here," said Moriarty, gesturing to John, "and it was perfect. I had a real way to bother you. By hurting him. That's why I broke my pattern and tried to kill him.

"Meanwhile, I had started my plan to take over Hogwarts. Then… then came _Molly_ _Hooper_, ruining _everything_!" he roared. "She saw me talking to Slughorn, and I wiped her memory, and then _you_… you tortured her into getting her memory back, and that was a very, very bad idea, Sherlock. Then you weren't fun anymore. Then you were in my way. So when I took over the school, I took all the Mudbloods away, and I only did it because I knew that having your precious John away from you would be like torture for you, and I had hoped it would distract you enough to continue to stay out of my way.

"But I underestimated you once again. You only made me angrier by somehow getting the Ministry involved! Before I was cross with you, but now… now I want nothing more to see you _burn_, Sherlock. I never meant you any real harm, not before. You were quite fun, originally, just a toy for me to fiddle with. But now you've ruined my plan, and all I have left in the world is to burn the very _heart_ out of you. And I'll do it through them." He pointed to Sherlock's friends on the ground.

"Maybe I should start with Molly," Moriarty continued. "If I torture her for even a few moments, she'll lose her mind, after what you did to her. How would you like to see her mind break right before your eyes?"

The thought of it left the permanent hole in Sherlock's chest gaping and burning.

"Or I could start with Greg, so kind, and always trusting you. Or your brother, the one you've only just become fond of. All I know is that John will go last, and that you'll want to be dead by the time I'm done. And I'll oblige, yes, but only when your heart his a smoldering mess in your chest."

Sherlock's breathing was ragged at the words, emotion ripping through him in a way he never thought it could at Moriarty's words. These were the only people in the world that cared for him, that he cared for himself, and Moriarty was going to torture them all into madness before Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock's mind, somehow, became clearer than it ever had. He looked Moriarty up and down and knew what to do.

"Oh, I see," said Sherlock. "You're just afraid to deal with me yourself, because you know I'm cleverer than you. That I'll only stop you again, like I always do."

Moriarty turned slowly to Sherlock, his face pulled into an impressive scowl that even Sherlock almost found intimidating. "I see what you're doing Sherlock. It won't work."

Sherlock ignored him and continued, "You know you can't beat me unless I'm crippled by grief."

"SHUT _UP_!" Moriarty barked, his voice sudden and piercing. Sherlock saw Molly flinch.

"It's alright, I understand. You know I'll always win."

"You can't beat me!" cried Moriarty.

"I already did, if I recall," said Sherlock.

Moriarty was seething with fury. "Fine," he snapped, tossing Sherlock's wand back to him. "Here's your wand. You and I will duel. Unforgivable Curses are not to be used."

Sherlock considered at first asking how he could know Moriarty wouldn't use an Unforgivable even though it was against the rules, but then knew that he could trust at least that. If he broke the rules, then he won't have really won. This whole thing was about pride in the first place, he couldn't cheat.

Sherlock nodded, so Moriarty continued, "When I win, I get to torture your friends into madness, and then you'll jump off this tower."

"And when I win?" asked Sherlock.

"_If_ you win, then I'll throw _myself_ off this tower."

"How can I be sure you'll really do it?" asked Sherlock.

"If I ever actually lost a duel to a fifteen your old, trust me, I'd _want_ to jump off a cliff."

Sherlock thought for only a moment. It was the best he was going to get and he knew it.

"Deal," he said, coming forward and shaking Moriarty's hand.

The two bowed to one another, as you were supposed to before a duel, even though Sherlock wanted to die a little at the thought of bowing to a spider like Moriarty, who'd been treating him like a toy for years now.

Sherlock made the first move, throwing a disarming spell at him. Moriarty blocked it easily. Moriarty flicked his wand at Sherlock, and Sherlock blocked him using _Protego_. This went on for several moves. It turned out the two of them were fairly evenly matched, to Sherlock's relief. He'd thought they might be, but wasn't sure. They would have to wait until one of them made a mistake.

Sherlock considered, for a moment, breaking the rules himself and just killing Moriarty with Avada Kadavra… but then Sherlock's own pride got in the way. He didn't want to compare himself to Moriarty… but it would always bother him if he beat Moriarty by cheating. He had to beat him fair and square. Maybe it was selfish, but he couldn't bring himself to let go of that pride, not even for this.

So he had to think of something else.

"Oh, Sherlock," said Moriarty. "You know I'll win this, don't you?"

Sherlock blocked a spell. "Do I?"

"Of course. Because I have the advantage."

Sherlock throws another spell in Moriarty's direction, and it's blocked. "What advantage is that?"

"We made no rules about hurting your friends. And the moment that I throw a spell at one of them, you'll be distracted and I'll hit you easily."

The moment Moriarty said it, it felt to Sherlock like the whole world had frozen. Oh, Moriarty wouldn't dare threaten his friends, not now.

Moriarty had finally made the mistake Sherlock was waiting for.

Because in Sherlock's rage at the thought of Moriarty hurting any of them, in that frozen moment of fury, Moriarty had never looked like an easier target. Moriarty was moving at less than half the speed Sherlock was, and Sherlock even said the spell aloud this time, so confident he was that he would make his mark this time.

"_Expelliarmus_," said Sherlock calmly, and far before Moriarty could block it, his wand flew out of his hand and landed in Sherlock's.

It took Moriarty a long moment to realise what had happened. He looked at his own hand in shock, and then up at Sherlock. His mouth flapped pathetically for a long moment, and Sherlock smirked at him. Finally, Moriarty said. "But how could you, _you_, have any chance against me? You're ordinary."

"Oh, that's where you're wrong," Sherlock replied. "I am you. Couldn't you see that from the start? From the moment I was able to torture an innocent girl just to get a memory back? I'm _you_. Prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

Moriarty shook his head, chuckling. He came closer, and Sherlock stared warily at him, keeping a tight grip on both wands and being ready for anything.

"Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary—you're on the side of the angels."

In response, Sherlock said, his voice low and ominous, "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for _one_ _second_ that I am one of them."

Moriarty was looking at Sherlock closely, as if trying to see something in his face.

"No. You're not." He began to smile. "You're not ordinary. No. You're me." He laughed a mad bark of a laugh, and he was right in front of Sherlock now, close enough that Sherlock could feel the man's breath on his chin. "You're me! Thank you!" His hand hovered over Sherlock's shoulder, like maybe he wanted to caress him. Then his hand came out, obviously like he wanted to shake. "Sherlock Holmes," he said. Sherlock looked down at the hand, and then after a moment, took the hand. "Thank you," Moriarty said. "Bless you."

Sherlock became nervous that Moriarty was going to try to push him off the tower. He held his ground, anticipating the shove…

Then, quite suddenly, Moriarty let go and leaned to the side… where there was nothing but air. And Sherlock watched as Moriarty plummeted from the tower, then hit the ground far, far below.

And so ended the life of Professor James Moriarty.


	38. Adventure 12: The Muggle House

Sherlock didn't actually admit to being the one to send Moriarty plummeting to his death, because then he might get more unwanted admirers, but John suspected that most people believed he had something to do with it anyway. John was fine with nobody knowing about he and his friends being taken, with people not knowing what Sherlock had done. John honestly just wanted to forget about Moriarty, that the man ever existed. He was going to take this month off to do just that, and he was going to go back to Hogwarts without any reservations. At least, that's what he hoped.

In the morning, the students going to the train was postponed by finding Moriarty's body on the grounds, but around ten in the morning, everyone was heading to the Hogwarts Express. Sherlock and his four companions were quiet, even more so than everyone else, after the nights events. Sherlock and Mycroft couldn't even find it in themselves to bicker. They all got a compartment together, and they sat in silence as the train rattled its way towards London.

Greg was the first to say anything. "Erm… should we be thanking you for saving us last night?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If one more person thanks me for heroics, I'll have to curse them to never speak again."

Usually, the reaction to Sherlock saying things like this was just to glare, or to ignore him… but today was different. Inexplicably, everyone in the car (even the Holmes brothers, who were constantly stoic) began to laugh. Too hard, in fact, like it was just a bit manic. But they all laughed like someone had told some very funny joke.

Once they all quieted down again, John said, "It's done. Moriarty's gone. We actually did it."

"Well, I did most of the work," said Sherlock.

"Oh, shut up," said several people at once. From then on though, they all chatted with each other more comfortably, like whatever weight had been on them had been lifted by their bout of hysterics.

At one point, Mycroft, Greg, and Molly were all chatting about something emphatically, and John looked over to Sherlock. Sherlock was already staring at him, his icy eyes piercing.

John smiled a little. "Thank you," John repeated. "Really."

"For saving you? Because I thought nobody was supposed to thank me for heroics."

"No, not for that," said John. "Well, partly for that. But I meant for everything. For this whole year."

"If you'd never met me, you'd never have been a target for Moriarty," said Sherlock.

"True," John said. "But that was worth it. Anything was worth it."

Sherlock's eyes stayed locked on John's. Then he said something John never thought he'd hear Sherlock say.

"I love you."

John blinked for a moment. He was about to reply, but then he realised the whole car had gone silent. Like they were listening. And a moment after that, Greg said, "Really? You'd never said that before now? You're so damaged."

Sherlock glared at Greg, but John just laughed.

"Oh yeah, he's damaged," said John, still looking into Sherlock's eyes. "But for some stupid reason, I love him too."

Sherlock met John's eyes once more, smiling a little. Nobody else said anything, but he sensed they'd all rolled their eyes. For the rest of the ride, John leaned into Sherlock's shoulder, feeling honestly content for the first time in a long, long time.

They arrived at King's Cross, and they said all their goodbyes in the car. As they walked off the train, John stopped Sherlock, pulling them into an empty compartment.

"Hey Sherlock," he said tentatively. "I was wondering…"

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted.

"I wanted to introduce you to my mum."

Sherlock's eyebrow flicked up, but otherwise he didn't react for a moment. "Okay," he said, as if he wasn't even sure why John bothered to ask. John rolled his eyes and dragged Sherlock out of the train by the hand. Soon after, he saw his mum… standing with both Harry and another woman…

John knew after a moment it had to be Clara, Harry's girlfriend. Well, that was a good sign. That meant mum had taken the news well, if she was here. He wasn't surprised to see Harry, as the news had been released about what had happened, and mum had written him five times since he got out of the Chamber three days earlier.

As he expected, mum looked him over, as if looking for missing limbs, and then hugged him and worried over him. John informed her that Moriarty was dead and she was relieved and had said that otherwise she'd never let him go back. It was probably a whole ten minutes that she had half a panic attack, making sure her "baby" was okay. John knew Sherlock was laughing to himself at the whole thing.

After mum was done though, she seemed to notice Sherlock.

"Oh, John," said mum. "Who's this?"

John backed up, and his cheeks burned in what he knew was a blush. "Oh. Erm, mum, this is Sherlock. He's… well, he's kind of my… my boyfriend."

He didn't know what kind of reaction to expect. Would she show surprise? Would she be distressed to find both her children were gay?

But then she smiled at Sherlock, and to both he and John's surprise, she came forward and hugged him. Sherlock didn't respond at all at first, and John had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing at him. Then Sherlock tentatively put his arms around her, probably just to make the embrace end.

She let go. "Nice you meet you, Sherlock." Then her face lit up. "Hey, would you like to stay at our house for the break?"

Sherlock looked surprised once more, and John actually did giggle this time. All this time, the one person in the world who could surprise Sherlock was John's own mum. Who'd've guessed?

"I'd be delighted," he said, displaying the manners that he had hidden for times when he really needed them.

"Shouldn't you ask Mycroft?" asked John.

"Oh, he won't care," said Sherlock. "I'll send him an owl."

John didn't argue. Probably, he really wouldn't care.

Mum, in her over-protective mode, took the cart with John's luggage and, after piling Sherlock's on too, rolled it herself.

"You didn't tell me you swing that way," said Harry to John.

"I didn't actually know," said John awkwardly.

"Well, our family was already weird enough. Can't get any worse with one more gay kid."

She started to walk.

"And _that's_ my sister," said John exasperatedly.

"Seems charming," said Sherlock.

"Oh, always."

They started to walk hand in hand.

"This should be fun," said John. "It'll be an adventure."

"An adventure?" asked Sherlock, "The house of a Muggle? How?"

"Because everything's an adventure when you're there," John replied with a smile. And it was true. John's life would be an adventure for the rest of his days, just as long as he had Sherlock with him.

"Fair enough," Sherlock replied. And the two followed behind Mrs Watson, Harry, and Clara, walking into the greatest adventure of both their lives: each other.

* * *

**Thank you all so much for reading this whole fic. I know it was really fucking long, but I hope you liked it. I think I've said this before, but if you like this, go ahead and read any of my other Johnlocks, including a vampire!Sherlock I'm writing right now called ****_The Dark Dimension_****. I've really appreciated all the favourites and reviews and things, and if you haven't left a review yet, I'd love if you'd just leave one now so I can know what you thought. I'd love you forever. **

**Have a wonderful life, readers, and again, I hope you enjoyed. **


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